Anxiety Speaks Softly and Carries a Big Stick – Liz Kitchens

Anxiety is kind of like a mean mother-in-law or insecure professor whose pessimism and judgment make you feel hopeless. “You know your foot drop is not going to improve. You’re going to have to wear that brace forever,” my visitor would hiss into my barely awake ear.

Well, she was wrong. Following months of physical therapy and a few acupuncture treatments thrown in for good measure, I was able to resume my daily rituals and routines, including riding my beloved bicycle. “Let’s ride our bikes to church,” I begged my husband one fateful Sunday morning. My kind husband finds it hard to say no to me (or possibly doesn’t want to endure my whining and pleading) so off we careened to Knowles Chapel. Careen is the operative word, as it turned out. I had a particular route in mind, my husband another. The upshot? Our careening resulted in a collision where I served as the cushion for my husband’s fall. Our crash was like an episode of The Night Before Christmas story—“Out on the lawn there arose such a clatter neighbors sprang from their beds to see what was the matter.” The matter turned out to be a fractured wrist and ankle (of course the same ankle as the drop foot) and road rash from skidding across the asphalt.

These injuries interrupted basic living routines and cherished activities. Bicycling was bygone for months; forget driving for weeks; blog posts and book edits curtailed (typing with one hand is too slow and distracting.) Adjusting to life with one hand and barely two feet was challenging. My shirts sustained permanent stains from food dropped by the fumbling fork. Oh, and the indignities! Like fastening a bra. Pouring sixty-seven-year-old boobs into a bra in front of an audience! Humbling, to say the least. Sponge baths were necessary in the early days following surgery. My husband lingered nearby, fearing I might fall and hurt myself, not an unreasonable assumption considering the year’s exploits. Ordinarily clothes and towels help to obscure flab and folds. Not during bath time standing under LED lights above the kitchen sink. (There really is a reason to stay married.) Texting, my favorite mode of communication, proved difficult with only one thumb. I felt compelled to offer a disclaimer—“Please forgive the typos, I’m operating with just one hand.”

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