Coffee and Pockets

Not my usual post loaded with photos. I didn't intend to tell a long story...it just kept going.

July 27, 2005 was the last time I drank coffee from my own kitchen. One or two small cups each morning was all it took to ignite a fire under my butt to move! move! move! early in the morn. After thirty-two years of relying on the powers of caffeine, I gave up the habit abruptly but it was not my choice.

On the evening of July 26, 2005, I tumbled down the back deck steps while letting Bella outside to pee. I held her on lead to protect her from nasty dogs next door. When I tumbled, my sandals flew off, and I thought I heard a muffled crack somewhere near my foot but put it right out of my mind. I remember that fall vividly, like a bad dream, and thinking, “Oh crap. I broke my foot. HA! Can’t be real. I’m moving three states away soon.”

Our house was sold a few weeks prior, I had packed only two bedrooms even though we scheduled movers and packers, and Michael was already working and living out of a suitcase in North Carolina. I was alone in Delaware. Past bedtime and late in the evening, I hobbled back into the house leaving my sandals where they landed on the patio, took two Advil, went to bed, and hoped for the best the next day.

Drank a few ounces of coffee the next morning. It gave me the strength to crawl up the stairs that led into the walk-in attic to find a pair of crutches that were probably bought from Read’s Drug Store back in 1968 when I fractured the same ankle. The hardware that held the wooden sticks together was loose, the rubbery armpit and hand pads were dry-rotted, but I needed them to haul myself to the Envoy for a trip to the emergency room. On the way, I called the office to tell Barbara I’d be in later, after a quick X-ray. I refused to believe my problem was more than a minor sprain but realized my left foot sort of swayed back and forth, hanging on to a few threads of something.

“Mary, my goodness. You broke your ankle in two places!” I heard the doctor say…and some talk about the surgeon coming by to discuss surgery. I sort of listened to his long-winded explanation, describing the pins and screws he would use in surgery seven hours later, but I heard, loud and clear, “…after two weeks in a hard cast, we’ll replace it with a mobile one.” It was selective hearing on my part, and I believed I’d be in a walking cast or boot soon. After all, I had lots to do since we were moving in twenty-eight days! For the next several hours, I sat in the hospital bed alone and feeling frightened as I had not had surgery since my tonsillectomy at age four.

The kind nurses brought me dinner and a pair of brand new crutches after a two-hour surgery. Barbara picked up my prescriptions and my neighbors drove me and my Envoy home that night. I was such a happy soul that evening, giddy and laughing as I crawled up the garage steps leading into the laundry room to kiss and hug my little black and white girlfriends and chatted with friends for a while. I had enough drugs in me that I promised Barbara I’d be back to work in three days. Yeah, right. I'm sure they rolled their eyes at me when I wasn’t looking.

The next morning, Michael flew in to stay for a few days and learned to use a washing machine for the first time in his life and other major appliances, but has since forgotten… A man with limited time to get through the daily nitty-gritty chores of cleaning, cooking, selling furniture, and moving, he was overwhelmed. I asked for a glass of ice water because carrying a glass of water, or anything for that matter, was impossible for me. Yes, I knew he was busy and as stressed as I, but his comment to me was, “You know, Mare, you can use one crutch and carry things – I’ve seen people use one crutch.”

My reply, “In a CIRCUS? I need you to show me how it’s done. I felt like hurling a crutch his way like a spear. Go out and buy me an apron with pockets and bottled water.” And he did. It was hot in late July and he brought home a heavy canvass apron large enough to fit a six foot tall chef with a sixty inch waste. I needed pockets to carry things and not an apron that would trip me up and send me flying. He tried his best to help.

Gina drove north from Wilmington, NC the day after. She stayed with me for two straight weeks, not making coffee, and catered to my whims. We played card games until we lost consciousness and I learned to like MTV as she learned to like Good Morning America. We both tried to make life fun while I sat on the sofa most of the time, elevating my foot, watching TV and the golfers tee off through the window, watching life go on outside of my miserable room, feeling sorry for myself, and hearing news from our pitiful real estate agent that our buyers’ sale of their house fell through… and the words, “…we can list your house again”, and I cried. That lousy real estate agent fumbled the ball too many times and I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. I was hopelessly losing control of my life.

(We didn’t list the house again but we were forced to settle on our home in Delaware electronically, two weeks after we settled on our home in North Carolina. How nice.)

The day before Gina left to get back to work in Wilmington, I crutched into the bathroom, slipped my cast into the plastic bag, sat on my new shower seat Michael bought for me, and emerged from the bathroom in full make-up, hair blown dry to perfection, eager to see the surgeon after two weeks of wishing…waiting for my “walking, mobile cast”. I had, by then, mastered crutches but avoided stairs completely.

If you want a tighter stomach, more upper body strength and a six-pack, use crutches for a few weeks.

The surgeon sawed through the hard cast, removed twenty-eight staples, and Gina nearly fainted. The X-ray looked good. Did I get a walking cast? Of course, I didn't. “Four more weeks on crutches with this removable air cast”, he prescribed. “You need a full six weeks of healing to avoid permanent disability.” If he wasn’t so good looking, I would have slapped him. “But doctor, I’m moving in less than two weeks, blah blah blah…” I knew what the prognosis would be, but…I needed to hear some good news for a change, dammit!

Poor Gina watched me weep on the way home and watched me sob on the phone with co-worker Mary Lou and my dear friend Ruth, my cubicle neighbor, as I asked her to pack up my cube and bring it to me…and she did, taking great care with my photo frames and everything else I cherished in my “cubicle, sweet cubicle”.

Within two days, Michael returned to North Carolina, as did Gina. I was home alone for four days before he would fly back to Delaware to get ready for moving day. During those endless four days, I was grateful for friends who visited and my neighbors who came in several times a day to let Chloe and Bella outside, on lead, for safety from the dogs next door. I had not seen my pond fish in over three weeks and no one filled the bird feeder. Incredible.

No one brought me coffee, but by then, I didn’t miss it.

Dry cereal for breakfast and a juice box. You carry everything in your pockets. A small bottle of window cleaner fit nicely and a roll of paper towels was snug against my belly behind elastic waste shorts.

Making a hot dog for dinner while on crutches is a major task:

Allow yourself thirty minutes from start to finish.

Crutch to the frig. Throw a hot dog, a bottle of mustard, and rolls across the kitchen to land on the counter near the microwave.

Crutch to the pantry. Fly a paper plate as you would a Frisbee to the same area.

You throw things to save time because your good foot and leg ache from bearing the weight when you are using it for too long.

By the time your hot dog is piping hot you need to sit down at the kitchen table for about two minutes to rest your good leg and observe the toes on your bad leg swell to the size of boiled eggs.

Wrap the warm hot dog in a paper towel or foil and put it in your pocket. Place a bottle of water in your other pocket.

Crutch to the sofa and fall into it. Channel to world news and reach for the hot dog in your pocket to find that your pants had twisted and you sat on it.

Eat your cold, bent hot dog anyway.

Ignore the begging Boston Terrier faces because you worked too hard to share a small, lousy meal.

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What does all of this have to do with coffee?

I brewed a pot of coffee this morning because Michael and I thought about an occasional pot lately. The aroma brought back memories of the last time I used my coffee mug, over two years ago. I overslept a bit, and was running late.

A few ounces of caffeine made a huge difference. Without really trying, I shaved fifteen minutes off my getting-ready-for-work time. My eyes were wide open.

After I was dressed and literally running out the door, something didn’t feel right. My elastic waist pants felt tight around my buttocks, loose and puffy on my stomach, and I fleetingly wondered how my weight shifted from front to back overnight.

Entering my office, I wanted to put keys in my pocket but my hands kept slipping by, to find my pockets reversed and my pants on backwards.

Life is a riot.