On June 30, in an embarrassing sex-related incident, I broke the third and fourth metatarsals in my left foot.
I’d had non-specific but big plans for this vaccinated summer. Nights out. Long hikes. Camping excursions. Dance parties. A jiu-jitsu belt test. Instead, I found myself spending most of it in my apartment, often alone, reading books and playing video games (The Last of Us Part 2 is one of the best narrative experiences I’ve ever had, in any medium). To navigate my apartment, and much to the consternation of my downstairs neighbors, I rolled around noisily in my desk-chair. When I did go out, I had to wear a bulky, cumbersome boot that bruised the top of my foot, offended my ankle, and ensured that my hips were perpetually out of alignment.
At least six to eight weeks to heal, the doctor told me. At eight weeks he took a new set of x-rays. The news was disappointing at best—depressing, if I’m being more honest. The bones were healing, but slowly. Keep wearing the boot. Even better, stay off the foot entirely. Let’s schedule another follow-up in four weeks.
So, four weeks later—that is to say, last Tuesday—I got a third set of x-rays that insurance refused to cover—and this time, the news was cautiously good. The foot hadn’t healed completely, but the current state of the fractures amounted more to nicks than breaks, and I could begin to walk again, without the boot, slowly.
It’s a bizarre experience, learning to walk again. It’s taken great mental effort to allow myself to trust that my foot can take the weight, that it will support me, that the doctor didn’t make a mistake. I’m still fighting three months of habitually keeping my toes raised and flexed. My gait is awkward. It’s growing steadier every day, yet still, I limp. The foot is still broken, to a small extent, and I’m acutely aware of this. There’s no pain, but atrophied muscles and a stiff ankle continue to remind me that for the last three months, my foot hasn’t been able to do its job—so how can I trust it to do so now?
”Take it slow,” the doctor told me. “Wear thick-soled shoes for the next couple weeks, like hiking boots or running shoes. Stay close to your building. Avoid hills for a little while. Don’t jog until you feel ready. When you can hop up and down on your left foot, you’ll know you’re completely healed, and you can resume all your normal activities.”
“But how,” I asked him, “will I know when it’s safe to even attempt the hop test?”
He smiled. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
It’s been just over a week since that conversation. I still can’t accept that I don’t need the chair anymore, but I’m trying. One step at a time. One day at a time. I’m certainly not hopping, not today—but maybe next week. Probably, more realistically, the week after. Or the week after that.