You might not believe this, but I'm in possession of a nearly normal-looking right leg. Well, the scars are still there, although they're no longer so grotesque but rather bad-ass. At least that's what I'm telling myself.
Last week, my physical therapist taught me how to walk. Yes, after six weeks of sitting and awkward hopping about, one must be shown. It amazes me that while my body seems to know how to repair bones (!), my brain conveniently forgets how to put one foot in front of the other.
And do you know what? I can do stairs too. I know: so many impressive tricks in such a short span of time. Give me a biscuit! It takes a lot of energy to descend the stairs, "walk" to my doctor's office and back, then scale the stairs again, but it's taking less and less of a toll every day.
Despite the slow-going of it all, I couldn't be happier or luckier to have such patient friends. They seem quite content to wade through the street at my 1 km per hour pace, deflecting unwitting tourists out of my path. I love it. The gratitude I feel casts a shadow on the small frustrations that come along with the hopeless expectation I put on myself to snap back to normal instantly.
Still, the prospect of getting on a bus (my main mode of transport around town and to work) still frightens me. And given the energy it takes to just get to the doctor, even if I did make it up to my office, I'd be too exhausted to do much once I was there. The may sound like an enormous cop-out, but if you knew the cabin fever that's set in, you'd know that it's far from the case.
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