sidelined

One week ago today, I had a procedure called an “adductoplasty.” In the world of podiatry, this procedure corrects a genetic deformity of the foot by re-positioning the bones of the first three metatarsals by “releasing” ligaments and inserting internal giant titanium staples around the bones in the mid-foot area to keep them from wandering. In addition, my adductoplasty also included a “correction” to a decades-old bunion which required its own wrangling and reduction. If these formal terms are keeping you from imagining any gore, then, good. But it was (still is) gory. Three big incisions, four smaller incisions where the ligaments were “released” (“be free!”) and talk of “shaving bone” (gag) which resulted in plenty of swelling and bruising. I got my first look at it all yesterday at a follow up appointment with the doc and, though she was pleased, it was all a little too much for me.

This procedure is known for the pain that it wields, and a lengthy recovery. So far, the pain has been manageable (only a few awful moments of “nerve reawakening” that feel more like hot pokers delivering electric shots to tender spots in one’s foot) and the recovery- well… I am just beginning Week Two of a projected 13-14 week odyssey.

My sister was here to nurse me through the first week and to help Glenn as we figured it all out, together. My recovery bed was set up in the living room (a view of the stars and autumn leaves out the window, a fireplace 5 feet from the foot of the bed, easy access to kitchen, powder room, etc…) It could not have been better. My sister is a great cook. She accommodated my pescatarian/vegetarian/vegan tastes and made us a parade of beautiful meals: roasted cauliflower with tahini harissa sauce in pita pockets, linguine with clam sauce, frittata with fresh herbs and parmesan reggiano, salmon bowls with brown rice, edamame, cuke, tomatoes and Japaneses barbecue sauce, and macaroni casserole for comfort food. She also left us with a freezer full of dinners for the weeks ahead.

So- this post is less about the surgery… and more about my surprise at the effects of being sidelined for a few weeks. If this sounds like a whine, or a rant… then it may very well be. Yes, I know that there are huge problems in the world. That our country is in a time of deep division having just reelected the former president to office. That people whom I love- trans people, gay people, young women, people of color- are at real risk. Even I, as a female of a certain age in leadership, feel vulnerable in a few different ways. I know. And, aside from that, and acknowledging my great privilege (white woman, financially secure, great health insurance, supportive family…) I am still feeling more and more like Eyeore these days. So scroll on, if it’s too much. I get it.

Mostly, I am so sad about not being able to be outside. Every morning I rise before dawn, say my prayers and head out into the inky darkness for a 3-5 mile walk. I observe the stars. I listen to the owls calling back and forth. Count the number of roosters that announce the dawn in my rural neighborhood. (There are 6 roosters within 1/4 mile of our house.) I watch the sky in the east go from navy blue to violet to orange to pink, and I look for the bright fiery sun to finally break the horizon’s edge. I smell the newly mown hay, notice that the farmer got to the corn in the far field, yesterday, and wonder how crunchy and brown the soybeans need to be before it is their turn for harvest. I head over through the pass that brings me to Ruth’s house and look for the single light on over her kitchen sink. Ruth is in her mid-eighties now, hard of hearing, and recently widowed. She lives on the farm where she and her husband have lived for half a century. She drove a school bus and he worked the land. Sometimes when I pass by I will sit on the steps of her porch and she recounts her earlier years. The horse sticks his head out of the barn, and a litter of barn kittens wind around his big hooves.

I miss my prayer shack. This is the season when I get to fire up the wood stove and sit in my little camp chair, content as can be, writing, reading, removing myself from the madness.Often, my cat Wobbles will sit outside of the shed waiting for me, patient as can be. Wobbles is really more of a dog than a cat, I have decided.

I miss my kitchen. Cooking is my soul-work. The easy flow between stove and sink and refrigerator… kneading bread on the counter and keeping an eye on the birds just outside the window: cardinals, woodpeckers, finches, bluebirds… even the grackles look good with their iridescent coats as they eat the mealworms that we intended for the bluebirds… Cooking is my creative outlet that allows me to experiment and play. It also helps to support a healthy diet. I am reading Food Freedom by Robin Greenfield right now. It is his story of growing and foraging every. single, thing. that he ate for an entire year. No processed food, no store-bought groceries, spices, beverages; no bottled oils or factory produced fats. His story is an inspiration to me. Sitting, now, in my recovery bed, I am plotting my 2025 food challenge for myself.

I miss the physicality of being active. In good health, until this week I have taken for granted the ease with which I climb stairs, carry wood from the wood pile to the porch, lug groceries in to the house, run back up the stairs to retrieve something that I’ve forgotten, and stand for hours in the kitchen at my stove. Everything is planned now. There is no step taken that isn’t considered, first, and without my rolling scooter and its basket on the front, I’d be helpless.

I’m not priggishly independent or stalwart. It was great having breakfast in bed, delivered on a tray by my sister each morning for the past week. I know that when you love someone, you want to help. I’ve gladly accepted that help. I have been loved and am so grateful. And, there is no small feeling of impotence for someone who likes to be in charge to suddenly be so …needy. There are lessons, there, I know. Hopefully, people will be spared by my turning these reflections in to self-indulgent sermons (Preach the gospel.). But it is a good theological musing for someone who usually strolls around in a pointy hat and flowing cope, carrying a stick for show and calling down the Holy Spirit into our midst to suddenly be the one who has to sit on the sidelines and use that stick for support, not show.

Hopefully, this is the last that you’ll hear on all of this.

I will sit in my recovery bed tending to as many emails as I can manage, and dream dreams of the Appalachian Trail, praying that someday I’ll be out there again.

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