Mobility and Agency. Or Lack Thereof.

On October 14, I stumbled as I was walking into my office, a fall that resulted in three broken metatarsals (foot bones) and a damaged ligament. I was supposed to be leaving the next day to go with John to Martha's Vineyard. Instead the journey I got to take has involved a surgery to stabilize my foot with a screw in my first metatarsal joint and six weeks of non-weight-bearing mobility impairment, plus additional restrictions and another surgery that will take place over the next 6 months. For those interested in the medical details of my injury, Google Lisfranc break; others do a great job of describing it.

At first I was in shock and naively thought I would get a cast thrown on, a set of crutches, and be on my way as if nothing had changed. Reality started to sink in as I sat in the first orthopedic doctor's office in a wheelchair. By the time I met with my surgeon three days later I had shifted from determined resolve to frightened resignation - pain was a given, mobility limitations a given, the only questions were about severity and duration.

We live in a split level house. It sits on a little hill (4 steps) up from street level with three more steps into the house. The door opens into our main level - living room, dining room and kitchen, with a half a flight of steps going up (to bedrooms) or down (additional living space) where both of our bathrooms are located. You can imagine the dilemma, particularly for someone who is overweight like I am.

I spent the first week essentially confined to the bedroom level (when I wasn't at a doctor's appointment). Thankfully I had a knee-walker rolling device which made getting around possible and a great support system. And prescription painkillers that made me not care about much of anything.

Week two I started practicing navigating stairs, and by week three I was able to venture outside a bit with assistance. I have made small victories (showering by myself!) but for the most part I remain utterly dependant on others for most of my daily activities.

Most days I run the full spectrum of emotions - frustration, self-pity, thankfulness, and guilt. And I have learned so much about disability in the process - things I knew intellectually but now understand on a whole different level due to lived experience.

The world isn't designed for the mobility impaired - shocker, I know. But I don't just mean things like stairs and cramped bathrooms (don't even get me started on bathrooms) - I mean restaurants with tables crammed together, stores with aisles that are too narrow and designed to send shoppers around the maximum merchandise, cars with doors that don't open wide, automatic doors that require tight maneuvers to navigate.

This disconnect between what I am capable of (albeit temporarily) and what it takes to navigate the world sometimes seems enormous. Going to the bathroom requires at least 10 minutes. Getting into or out of my car requires planning for people on both ends of my journey to assist me. And a simple walk from my office to the building next door now takes three times the steps and four times as long. I am constantly reminded of my own lack of agency, constantly reminded of the burden I am putting on others, and constantly reminded of how lucky I am that this is temporary.

So, what can be learned from my experience?

1) Sometimes it just needs to be a little bit easier - a hand held shower head, a pack of water that is easily reached, foam mats to cushion the concrete porch I crawl across. These have made HUGE differences.

2) The little things add up to a lot - while my recovery would be impossible without the heroic efforts of my family who take care of me daily, the small acts of kindness have made a big difference to all of us. A fountain soda delivery, a meal that was provided, or a visit from a friend who helped pass the time. We forget how meaningful these can be until we are the grateful recipients.

3) Independance in anything is still something - when one is dependant on so many for so much, even the smallest things done alone are a source of dignity. The first night I figured out how to shower without assistance I felt like I had made a major discovery. Depending on others (even those who are close) for basic hygiene is just demoralizing. No way around it. So anything that can be done to preserve or restore dignity is huge.

In my religious tradition, we wash each other's feet as part of a Holy Week service called Love Feast. My grandpa and I would always talk about how much easier it was to wash another's feet than to have your own feet washed. I have been reminded of this over and over in the past several weeks. Thankfully, it relieves some of my guilt when asking for help. But more importantly, it reminds me how important honoring and preserving another's dignity is. It's a lesson I won't soon forget.