No, I was not a literal a prisoner or kidnap victim. But last December 1st, I broke my left shoulder, tore its rotator cuff and popped loose the top of my bicep. I also shattered both the fibula and tibia of my right ankle and displaced-fractured three metatarsals of my foot. Thus, I lost stability. . .because of my foot, I could not attempt to bear weight for 12 weeks; and because of my shoulder, I could not use crutches or a scooter to get around. Nor could I alone do anything else that requires two hands, like pull down my pants in a restroom; (imagine standing on one foot, using the one hand you need for balance to yank them off; I learned to balance my forehead on the wall like an extra hand). I could not do simple tasks like p
eel an orange, cut my steak, put my hair in a ponytail.
Confined to a wheelchair, recovering from three surgeries, and deemed a “transfer risk” (as in just moving from chair-to-bed without help was dangerous), I was shunted to a sub-acute hospital for five weeks. There, I missed putting up our Christmas tree and shopping for presents. I missed my son graduating from high school. I missed visiting our friend as he hospiced his last days before his death. You might be missing major life events now, too. I understand.
Then when I came home, I could not climb stairs to my room, my shower or my art room. Because of narrow doorways or thick carpet or the back porch door jam, unless someone else wanted to take me somewhere, I had to figure out how to embrace my little kingdom: the kitchen and the den.
Eventually, around week eight, my hubby rolled me to a movie. We also enjoyed a dinner out where the chef kindly delivered my meal already cut into bite sized pieces. I wanted to wheel myself, but using my right hand and left foot for locomotion was wobbly and exhausting long distances. Around week nine or ten, I freely drove one of those motorized shopping scooters around Kroger’s like a Chief. But again, I was confined most of the time.
Three months into my recovery, my doctor finally released me from my braces, and allowed me to bear weight; at first, because of pain, I struggled to use the walker and stay out of my wheelchair for long. Now a month later, I am happily hobbling around on my booted foot without aides part of the day, and resting in my chair the other. With physical therapy, my shoulder is now past the 90 degree angle point working its range a bit farther daily. I’m recovering nicely, if not quickly, thank-you very much!
So you see, I have survived nearly four full months of confinement. But NOW, just as I get closer to actually walking out of my house, suddenly we are (rightfully) quarantined to our homes because of this horrid pandemic.
All my buddies are complaining about how they cannot go here or go there, and admitting: Good Lord, how much they want to smother their annoying spouses or children who are now working from home in the next room. Seems all this cabin fever is about to kill our country’s comrades. You’d think spending money was the only way Americans entertain themselves anymore-shopping, dining out, visiting movies. . .all forbidden. Hearing them, I feel a contradictory reaction: compassion that they (and you) all now suffer the isolation I went through for 12 weeks, but also petty irritation that they (and you) are whining about it.
Like you, I did suffer cabin fever when I was stuck in hospital then home, but I did so while also suffering physical pain and with far more limitations.
So you’ll have to pardon me for saying: MY GOODNESS, SHUT UP! YOU CAN ‘SHELTER IN PLACE’, TOO!
I had all the free time that we constantly moan about not having. Four months of it.
Here is what I could not do with that time (and to much extent still cannot): I saw so many things I suddenly urgently want to declutter from drawers and shelves, but could not lift or open with one hand, (and I am far from a compulsively neat person). I was working on a Christmas craft project back in November, that needed two hands to complete; it is up in my art room waiting for me to climb stairs now that my hands are free. I could not knit to pass the time while husband-snatching football season lingered on and on each weekend. My winter garden and flower bulbs by the mailbox remained undug; I could not ride my bike around the block (which is why I was stuck in the first place, having hit a patch of wet leaves the weekend after Thanksgiving while going 20 miles an hour).
Driving to the mountains for a solitary hike in the Spring woods was and is not an option. I could not peel or chop onions to help my son cook our dinner, (though I would attempt to stir pots I could not see into.) Typing on my laptop when whiling away the time was one-handed (when I did write longer pieces like this, I use voice apps.) I could not tackle those baseboards now that I had nothing more pressing, nor strip the sofa cushions and give them a wash. I could not empty the fridge and scrub it down. (You’d think this would be a blessing, but when you can’t do it, as you probably realize by now, you really, really want to. . .)
The office where I might try to go through all the paperwork to help my family prepare taxes is unreachable; and hubby thinks if he brings the files to the den, the dogs will plow through them, since the coffee table-slash-bench is the only place I could organize forms and receipts, any other counter is too high. . .I cannot take a walk around the block with those very dogs. . .I cannot toss a few balls through the hoop over our garage. . .I cannot go to the neighborhood courts to whack a few tennis balls. Cannot. Cannot. Cannot.
YOU CAN. All of these things are things you probably wished at one point in the last few years you had the time to do. . .DO THEM NOW. You have time. And one day, that time will-once again-be out of your reach.
And if those aren’t enough ideas. . .do the things I actually could do to while away my physical confinement: work jigsaw puzzles, write, lots of binge watch, read, chat on the phone, attend spiritual meetings by Zoom, study a new language online, play piano one-handed, visit family on skype, exercise, ride in the car for Sunday drives, play scrabble or dominoes with family. And when someone wheeled me outside, birdwatch and feel grateful to be alive in the fresh air.
I realize that list is very narrow, but those activities kept me sane and I was proud of doing them without too much whining. If I made it through four months with just those few activities–and I’m an irritable person by nature–you can too, especially with two hands and two feet.
Steering with My Elbows 