Putting My Foot Down

Putting my Foot Down

I’m no stranger to disability. I’ve been Bink’s mom for 25 years. I know lots of individuals with varied special needs, some of them my Yogabilities™ students. I count a few of these folks and their families among my dearest friends. That said, I’ve been experiencing a temporary kind of disability as I continue to heal from foot surgery, and it has been so eye opening.

Forty nine days an invalid, and not before this post-surgical stretch of days and nights, chunks of hours so similar their names became blurred, Janu-monday and Satuesday, not once before this did I ever take notice of the way the word invalid is a devious thing, a means to invalidate, as if the millions of couch sitters and chair wheelers and bed warmers and leg elevating folks everywhere are less than whole. As if those whose full status as owners of walking, driving, autonomous bodies that move well through the world makes them more valuable or relevant.

Mine has not been a long sentence by most means. Having just recently received the invitation to commence a slow reunion of foot and floor, with crutches sprouting from my tender armpits, my limbs are stiff and recalcitrant, and yet they still remember full mobility.

There is the variant pain in my titanium-enforced right foot, the weakness in the calf, the instability of a body not used to normal biped motion. There is knee pain in the left leg that faithfully supported me throughout and in the right leg that was forced to rest. There is general hip malaise, and my neck constricts despite the Yogic stretches and rolls. Hands ache for mysterious reasons. Still, driving, or even emerging from my home on two sturdy, unaided legs, is surely on the horizon. Not close, but I can see it out there.

My first tentative pushes of sole against solid ground have been uncomfortable, to say the least. I’ll take the pain, though, and thank it as a bridge to full recovery. My calendar has been oddly blank these past few months, but February feels like hope. I know in a few years time these homebound winter months will be my mere memory. What will remain: an aversion to that word — invalid— and a far larger room in my consciousness for those that stay in for reasons not of their choosing. There are those that are recovering and those that never will, those for whom in is all there is.

Thank you, God/Goddess/Source of all, for continually offering me ways to expand my awareness. May I use the lessons to make differences, however small, in a few lives along the way.

–Melinda Coppola

 

It’s a Good Thing

The View from Here

Hello from my couch, where I’ve been planted for the majority of my waking hours for the past twenty five days. Who’s counting? I sure am. I’ve been following doctor’s orders post-surgery and elevating my right foot anytime I am sitting down. This is an improvement, since last week I was gifted with permission to stop elevating it while in bed. This can only be a good thing.

I left my most recent post-operative doctor visit with another gift, though I’m hesitant to label it as such. I said goodbye to the big awkward cast that had covered my right leg from just beneath my first two toes up to about an inch below the knee. In its place I am sporting ( Ha! Tongue so in cheek) a heavier and even more awkward black boot-like thing. It has noisy and strong Velcro strips that multitask beautifully, keeping the boot in place while playing catch-and-hold with large quantities of cat hair.

When I tell people I have a boot now, most assume I am doing what people do in boots: walking. Nope, I’m still diligently keeping any weight off that right foot, awaiting my next X-ray in fifteen days ( but hey, who’s counting!). I think that next picture will determine whether I’ve grown enough bone underneath the plate and screws to allow me to begin walking a bit in the boot with crutches. If things aren’t looking optimal, it could be two more weeks after that before the floor shall know the whole two-footed weight of me. When that time arrives, it will be a very, very good thing.

This has been such an interesting journey so far. I guessed there would be lots of rest, time to read and catch up on the House Hunters type shows I enjoy, and time to create art and poems and essays. I supposed it would be hard for my daughter who is so used to having me as her primary caregiver. Some of that has happened, but there have also been some interesting emotional day trips.

Chunks of memories have risen from the depths, some painful, others pleasant and enlightening, but all inviting me to re-examine the stories I’ve told myself about people and events from the past. As a Yogi and an introvert I’m no stranger to self-examination, but my hours of couch sitting invite a deeper dive. It seems my advancing years have allowed a kinder, broader perspective, and this, too, is a good thing.

Another side effect of this experience: I’m finding a deeper understanding of what it feels like to be dependent on others for basic self-care. I’m becoming acquainted with how isolating it can be to spend day after day indoors, at home, with no ability to get up and take myself somewhere.

I’m remembering all the friends and acquaintances and family who have had long recuperations from accidents and joint replacements and serious illnesses. And those who never did recuperate. I wonder about their experiences, and I see and feel the ways I could have been more loving, more present, more helpful. It’s not regret that fills me, but rather gratitude for the lessons and for the chance to do it differently in the future. This, then, is a good thing.

I’m not trying to bum you out, dear reader. This is not grim, not at all. I know I’m really lucky to be so temporarily disabled. I know I‘m among the privileged few world residents who have access to great medical care and procedures that can and will improve my quality of life. I’m not depressed, I’m not particularly bored, and I’m not spending much time at all feeling sorry for myself.

What’s clear to me: this forced period of limitation comes with gifts. The greatest of these may be a deepening compassion for others in similar and often worse circumstances. And this is a very good thing indeed.

-Melinda Coppola

On Technology, Mobility, and Relinquishing Control

Techno Turbulence, with Mobility Hiatus Ahead

The daylight came,
an everyday miracle
and I rose to it
with pure intentions.

My poet’s heart drummed
insistent rhythm,
and I sang along
with equanimity.

Thing one:
A stack of forms to be filled
and filed on behalf of a dear one.
Make it yesterday, please,
An email implored.
Do it now do it now do it now.

Missing information,
more forms, phone calls,
passwords unknown,
log-ins shunned,
more than an hour of this,
and still my heart tapped,
and I could imagine poems
conceiving themselves in the space
between the beats.

Thing two:
An email announcing
Warning: Make this change.
Current system will become obsolete,
do it now do it now do it now.

There was a snag, and then
another, as snags often inbreed,
multiplying with unreasonable speed.
Four phone calls, information relay,
You’ll need to use your mobile now
and your debit card.
Give us the numbers.

I don’t want to give you my cell phone.
I don’t use debit cards.

No, Ma’am, you are not allowed
to be living without one. A mobile device,
and a card that sucks at your bank account
with no paper in between. No,
it is not possible to make this essential upgrade
without those conduits.

It was a weak song dribbling
from the flower in my chest, my lotus,
my center, my home.
It was a song nonetheless.

Thing three:
The upcoming surgery
will render you housebound,
one-legged, near useless
in the Ways of the Running of Things,
and well and truly deficient
in the Caregiving Department.

That’s just my primary occupation,
ensuring the health, safety, happiness,
comfort and continuity
for the two-leggeds,
one with special needs, one without,
and for the five furry four-legged ones.

It’ll only be some weeks,
six or seven or eight,
and then you’ll be among the mobile again,
walking on two feet ,
showering and trotting up and down stairs,
driving, even.

Beneath my ribs I sensed a hum,
weak yet audible,
and if it were a worded thing,
lyrical, elucidating,
it may have sung

Long night ahead, love.
Tuck yourself in tight,
prepare to lose control.
Dream deep and know:
daylight will come again.

-Melinda Coppola