I was a healthy, active, independent yogini who took brisk, two-mile walks every day without blinking. Then I had a foot transplant.
In spite of the careful plans and reliable caregivers I had in place to help me post-op, everything and everyone went south. Add the helplessness and relentless pain, and baby, this was one nasty writer.
But … then I discovered my neighbors….
God bless 85 year-old Frances-down-the-hall, who walks slower than I did, and still insisted on driving through the midnight rain for Tylenol. Mr. Rock ‘n Roll himself next door, heard me crying, asked for a grocery list, got everything on it plus an extra bag of M & M’s for emergencies, then refused to let me pay him.
Pilates women with cell phones in one hand and double espressos in the other, who drive roaring SUVs that would just as soon plow down Jesus than miss a light, stopped and smiled while I shuffled through nervous crosswalks. Restaurants delivered meals without minimum charges. The cute fire department opened heavy doors for me, and I honestly felt our community pulling for my healing.
It’s the last thing I expected. It’s the first thing I’ll remember.
© 2011 Molly-Ann Leikin
