For as long as I can remember, my mother has driven old cars. Not Husband's definition of ‘old’ which, is two car years. 'Old' like ten or twenty or thirty years with nothing electric or shiny or new 'old.' When we first moved to America, she carted us around in a VW square back named Henrietta. Henrietta was beige and stinky with no seatbelts and a rusted floorboard that mandated a swift hoist of your feet when she hit a puddle. We were mortified to be seen in her with our hand-me-downs and our Kenyan afros but Henrietta got us from point A to point B so Mom told us to get over it.
She followed Henrietta up with a Volvo with questionable environmental repercussions and doors that could slice off a finger. That thing was a tank and not only drove like one but sounded like one too. You could tell when she started the bugger up by the sudden flight of birds from the surrounding trees. Then Mom bought the car she still drives today, Nellie, a beat up blue rusty ’68 VW Bug. Nellie was purchased for me as my sixteenth birthday gift. Due to some lovely migraines with blackouts and a doctor’s note to not drive for a year, I didn’t get to drive Nellie. Mom did and still does. Nellie was a curmudgeon of a car. She was hot in the summer and cold in the winter. Her heater took two hours to work and smelled like exhaust. Her air conditioning was the two wing windows tilted just so and only really worked when you hit at least 30mph. She shook like an earthquake if you went over 50mph but would stall if you went below 10mph. And if you filled her gas tank up in the summer, it would overflow and saturate the carpet inside leaving you high on the fumes. Mom painted Nellie black and red, got her a new engine and seats and clutch and all the various bits and bobs needed to keep an old car running. But no matter what she did, Nellie still pissed and moaned about starting and would pop the clutch out of first whenever she felt like it, usually in rush hour traffic. Broken Ankle is like Nellie; it pisses and moans when starting, shakes if I go too fast and that sucker threatens to pop out of first whenever it feels like it. BUT she currently gets me from point A to point B so I am working on getting over it. I am “walking” people! Of course, "walking" means one step with Left Foot and then one very slow step with crutches and 20%(ish) of Broken Ankle. But that counts as "WALKING!" Yesterday, I went outside BY MYSELF. And I did some weeding, the big ones I could reach without bending over, BY MYSELF. And I came back upstairs BY MYSELF. Of course, I have to chant to myself, “Good foot first, bad foot second…” every time I step and it takes me ages to go anywhere and the swelling has been impressive. But it counts! So what if yesterday I was afraid my toes would pop off; they were that purple and squishy? So what if you can see the foam the indentation of the inside of the boot on/in my skin for hours after Boot comes off? So what if the surgery scars are PISSED OFF at this whole weight bearing endeavor? So what if nothing I do adds to the comfort and ease of anything and I moan and grimace so much I've got new wrinkles at the corners of my eyes? I'm still "WALKING!" Now, Husband is SO over the whole, “Look at my scar/swelling/bruise now...” conversation. (Heck, I even made Father-in-law participate in that via FaceTime so he's prepared when he gets here in a few weeks.) And I am SO over the random shooting waves of pain and the constant ache and the fifteen-minute hassle that is putting on of Boot and taking off of Boot. BUT, I haven’t had anything stronger than acetaminophen, chocolate and a hot bath since the dreaded Oxy withdrawal. I am able to get around a bit easier with Boot than with Stupid Green Cast. And each day is a bit better than the day before so there’s that. I know one day, I’ll be walking again without crutches or walkers or walls holding me up. That one day, I won’t have to think which foot to step up with and that I might get to wear more than just the one left shoe. That I won't be whispering, "You're okay... you're okay..." to myself under my breath with each and every step as I Frankenstein my way from room to room. I know that will happen by that day seems so dang far away... So for now, I’ll just take delight in the fact that I am able to put some weight on Broken Ankle and I haven’t broken back into the Oxy and I can get from point A to point B, just like Nellie. It’s the little things, people!
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AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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