I took my first steps in the garden. I don't mean when I was a baby. I don't know where I took those steps, as my mother never recorded it. But I feel like I must have felt way back then, when I took my first steps without crutches since I broke my foot on January 7. I had the worst case of cabin fever, trapped in the house for weeks, with only a trip to the doctor's office to break the monotony. Following foot surgery, I was on crutches and wearing a bracing boot. I must have looked like an indoor cat, sitting by the window, longingly gazing out at the world.
Finally, by the middle of February, I could take it no more, I had to see if my snowdrops were up and blooming. I hobbled out into the garden on crutches with a plastic bag over the boot. There was snow, there was pain. They couldn't stop me. I began to garden the next day, with a tiny bit of spring garden cleanup. That was the beginning of increasing forays into the garden.
By the last week of February, I was hobbling on one crutch Tiny Tim style. To go into the garden required a a plastic bag on the end of the crutch and one on the boot because of the mud. With one hand free, I could start carrying things.
|view of the woodland garden with crocuses, snowdrops and winter aconites|
Yesterday, I went to the doctor again. He was so impressed with how well I was getting around without crutches and how well my foot had healed, and he also noted that my foot had even added bone. I'm back in shoes again, standing on my own two feet. I owe it all to the garden.