Basically, I decided to redirect my obsessive urge for control which had fuelled my Diabulimia for 20 odd years – I started using that drive to help myself and forge positive habits day after day after day until I got through this hiatus which I constantly reminded myself was only temporary.
Everyone else was in lockdown – I was still on track to walk out of it with them.
April 21st finally arrived – “Trainer Day”! Woooooohoooooo! The day I finally walked out of the house in matching runners, waved blithely to my neighbours as I marched past, finally got back into my stride, and blew off 4 months of accumulated cobwebs. Freedom!
In anticipation of this momentous event (and as a means of never forgetting what I had gone through) I gathered together all my jeans which had had their left leg unceremoniously ripped open to accommodate my cast and I sewed them up using brightly coloured wools (my own take on the Japanese art of Kitsugi which involves mending broken pottery with liquid gold so the crack becomes part of the piece’s history as opposed to something which is invisibly mended). I’m rubbish at sewing anyway so this seemed like the logical alternative.
I had taken the added precaution over the previous 2 weeks of walking around the house barefoot in the evenings to give both my foot and my ankle some unrestricted exercise as my specialist had warned me that the ligaments, tendons, and muscles would have atrophied after so long in a cast and a rigid surgical boot – my ankle was surprisingly fine. I went up and down the stairs without any problems both barefoot and in my trainers.
Everything felt 100% normal.
The feeling of putting 2 matching trainers on again was indescribable. My foot looked perfect, no tell-tale signs of any trauma (2 small toes missing but all the healthier for that). I had dreamt of this moment for months, worked towards it. The country was coming out of lockdown, and I aimed to be out there front and centre enjoying every minute of it.
I walked outside into the sunny morning, heard the birds, felt the sun on my skin, the air in my lungs and…
Inside of 100 yards I knew something was wrong. Pain shot up the back of my ankle, I started limping. I was in agony.
I breathed deeply and told myself to walk more slowly. It was a shock that was all. The muscles were just stiff. Walking towards the leafy entrance to my estate I knew it was pointless. I sat on the wall as my dream of freedom evaporated in front of my eyes. It took me 10 minutes to retrace my steps back to the house, wincing with every limping footfall.
10 minutes later again my foot was elevated with an ice pack while my mind raced. Surely to God I couldn’t possibly have refractured it in that short walk!? I gingerly tried to put it to the floor and stand – I howled and looked at how my ankle had morphed into a small football.
The walls started to close in as visions of a further 6 weeks in a cast bloomed grotesquely in my mind’s eye. Memories came back to me of my specialist cautioning that this condition could take months to heal. I remembered how happy I had been only the previous day as I handed back my mobility knee scooter. What if I needed it again??
I spent the remainder of the day desperately ringing to try and talk to the hospital‘s physiotherapist who I had not been transferred over to yet, bringing forward my appointment with my specialist (not due for another 2 weeks) and as per usual Googling “is chronic pain normal after wearing a surgical boot for a fractured foot?” According to Dr. Google chances were I was one of those unlucky people who would be in chronic pain for the rest of their days…
Needless to say, at this point there was quite a lot of swearing and crying and general angst venting before I marshalled my emotions and had the bright idea of ringing someone on my orthopaedic team. That at least secured me an appointment a week earlier – any more immediate attention would require a trip to A&E.
I decided to sleep on it before I committed to a one-way trip to downtown Beirut.
Thankfully a rather circumspect and hassled physio rang me the next morning after I had blocked her inbox with frantic messages the previous day. “Were you referred to us? I’ve no record of any appointment or anything here”. I explained the situation and how I’d been told I could finally get back into my trainers after getting rid of my surgical boot.
Her exasperated response was immediate… “Who in the name of God told you could do that!!!??? Of course, you’re in bloody agony!!!” Suffice to say we had a protracted chat about ankle strengthening exercises and the importance of physio for regaining the use of my ankle which had basically forgotten what to do.
The following day I sallied forth again in my matching trainers – this time armed with one crutch and an ankle support. While the ankle took a few days to ease out it became pain-free again relatively quickly and I was able to walk to the shops and regain some semblance of scooter/cast/surgical boot-free mobility.
I’m thrilled to say I’m now back walking again both pain and limp free – not back to my 20km a day yet but I’m happy to take my time and do it the right way without putting my foot at risk of any further trauma. I’ve also started wearing trainers that really support my arches now (for some reason this became quite necessary after the metatarsal bones healed) and my feet feel very comfortable again.
Just last night I walked back up the avenue to Castletown House and sat there on the steps listening to the evening chorus of birds singing excitedly as the sun quietly lingered on the intricate stone facade.
It was pure Heaven.
