Two Weeks in with a Broken Foot

Here's how it's going.

It’s been two weeks since I fell down the stairs at my house and broke my left foot.

The story is such a nothingburger, it’s almost not worth telling. One minute I was headed down the stairs, and the next I was down them.

I lay on my back near my front door, blinking, wondering what had just happened. Even though I had only fallen down the last few steps, I lay sprawled out as if I were a cartoon character who had just tumbled dramatically down an entire flight of stairs.

My arms were flung back over my head, my right leg still stretched completely up the steps, my left curled in the air, throbbing, and the back of my head resting gently on my trusty ASICS. Thank God.

I didn’t think I was too badly hurt, but I also didn’t want to get up and check.

Because then I would know.

So I lay on the cool floor for a few minutes, resting and answering texts, sending completely normal messages as if this were a completely normal day,

Which, of course, it was not.

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Living in a three-story townhouse with a broken foot means there have not been any normal days since.

But what there has been is lots of help.

There hasn’t been a day in the last two weeks that at least one person hasn’t been here, dropping off food and crutches, carrying things up and down the stairs, cleaning, vacuuming, taking out the trash, sitting and chatting and laughing and storytelling and letting me gripe and reminding me to take my supplements and not to go near the stairs on my knee scooter.

If there’s a bright spot in all this, it’s that this catastrophe has given my friends the chance to show up and show out. And unlike the last time I broke a bone (a much worse rigamarole, if you’ve been around long enough to remember that one), I’ve learned to say yes to offers of help, both big and small.

Also, unlike last time, my body is in a better position to heal.

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I broke my right ankle in 2013.

Back then, I wasn’t in the best physical condition. I hadn’t been taking good care of myself, which left me with a body unable to deal easily with the rigors of crutches, tricep dips, and single-leg hops.

What a gruesome time.

This time around, I found out, somewhat of necessity, that I can do a pistol squat. Very convenient when you live alone, only have one working leg, and need to pick things up from the floor. Of course, single-leg squats are also a bit of a balance risk, so I haven’t been making a habit of them.

But still.

It’s satisfying to see how all those miles of running, all the hills and stairs, the weights and the stretching and cross training, have paid off in real life.

Not that I’m enjoying this season. Of course not. I broke my foot. It’s annoying and painful and a huge, clomping inconvenience.

But I’ve enjoyed what it’s revealed.

I am struggling, but I am strong, both physically and relationally.

And that’s good to know.

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