The Great education we call life , part 1
by Zanie Ann Wilder, Staff Writer
An hysterical look at one woman's adventure into higher learning
Real life experiences can teach us powerful lessons; especially when you imagine you know what it is like to walk in someone else’s shoes. Take me, for instance. I worked for several years with the physically and mentally impaired; until recently, I truly believed I understood the difficulties they faced in today’s world. That is when life pulled the proverbial rug out from under me, dispelling this illusion.
I broke my right ankle on July 15th; then on the 17th my education began in earnest. This particular hot, humid morning, I was preparing to return to college after a pain-filled weekend. I recall thinking to myself, “everything is handicapped accessible nowadays; therefore, getting into school should be no big deal.” And, “If I can drive with my right foot on the pedals, my left should work the same. Besides, if I can attend school and maintain a perfect GPA while raising 5 children, this little setback should be a snap.”
The first inkling I had of how truly wrong we can be in making assumptions such as these, was when I expected to pull out of my driveway smoothly, with my teens (soon to be drivers), in tow. I hit the gas, as I normally did. Unfortunately, my left foot did not get that particular memo, because we took off like a rocket ship, slinging gravel all over the place. From somewhere in the seats behind me, I heard excited male voices exclaiming, “Wow, mom, do I get to drive like that when I get my permit this fall?” And, from another, “That was totally cool, mom. Can we back up and do it again?” I just smiled benevolently, until I heard the girl voices grouse, “Good grief, mom! I hope none of the neighbors heard or saw that. Can I just walk to school today or call Ellie for a ride? That might be safer anyway.” I bit my tongue, then reminded them that it was never safer to ride with a new driver. The child must have believed my ears were broken as well as my ankle, because I swear I heard her mutter something like, “I seriously doubt that’s the case today. We will probably die, or at least suffer whiplash, before we make it to the high school.” To which I rejoined, that I would get the kinks out in a mile or two, and they should just be patient. She wasn’t; but it made me feel better to say it, just the same.
I never realized that driving with your left foot, while balancing your right foot, snuggly cocooned in a 10-pound plaster cast, pillowed on the dashboard, ought to be considered an Olympic event. Did you know it takes specialized skills and practice to drive a motorized vehicle with the left foot when you are used to doing it all with your right one? I didn’t, until just that moment. See what I mean about life giving us an education? Our van lurched down the road in a sudden heave/lunge kind of motion. I kept forgetting which pedal was the gas and which was the brake. Really, my brain knew the answer to that; but, apparently my left foot was having a difficult time with simple commands. It seemed in shock to suddenly be carrying the full load.
As teenagers are known to do, upon arriving at their school, very much alive, without the predicted whiplash, I might add, those ungrateful kids didn’t even bother to say something to show they appreciated my sacrifices on their behalf. A simple acknowledgment like “Gee, mom, I know how badly you must be hurting right now. Thank you so much for driving us so we didn’t have to ride the dreaded bus.” Or even, “You are the Greatest!” would have filled the bill. What I got instead was them threatening to rush out of the van en masse, and hug the principal, just to demonstrate how happy they were to be free of what was now referred to as the “death trap on wheels.” Firing a parting shot over my bow, the smart-aleck daughter half-jokingly remarked to her brother, she was “just grateful the school’s driveway was paved so her friends wouldn’t be pelted and killed by the inevitable spray of gravel when I departed.” Why would she say such a thing? I now had the kinks worked out of my system. The rest of the day had to be better than chauffeuring ungrateful teenagers around anyway.
Upon making it safely into town, to my college campus, I made another erroneous assumption, for which I would soon pay dearly. I assumed it would be prudent to park in the handicapped parking slot, as my van had handicap plates for my husband’s sake. I decided, for today, I definitely fit the criteria. I further convinced myself, “Handicap parking spots are always the ones that are in the closest proximity to the entrance.” Regarding this, I am still amazed that my own eyes did not refute this assumption. It seemed they were unwilling to transmit discrepancies, such as how the handicap spot I parked in was actually further from the front door than the regular spaces further down the row. Honestly! My brain must have been jostled when I fell and broke my ankle.
Basking in the success of having struggled into the straps of my heavily laden backpack, I was victorious in remaining balanced and upright on the flimsy metal sticks that they pass off for crutches. Like the trouper—that I constantly encourage each of my children to be—I proceeded to cross the deceptively short distance to the school entrance.
Unfortunately for me, reality began to catch up about a third of the way to the front door of the building. That was when the realization dawned that when using crutches, one has to move in an unnatural, heave/lunge motion, just as my van had, activating muscles I never knew existed, let alone used before. Using crutches would ordinarily be a tolerable temporary substitute for walking on two feet, however, coupled with the added weight now on my back, it did unexpected things to my sense of balance. Consequently, as I struggled to keep from tipping over backwards by adopting a hunchback of Notre Dane posture, while continuing to maneuver in a semi-forward motion, I was rapidly running out of steam. By the time I was halfway to the door, I was exhausted and puffing like an old-time steam engine. Also, there should be an Olympic competition for this.
Finally arriving at the front of the building, there stood a couple of steps taunting me to hurdle over them as I held the door opens. In a million years, this could not be accomplished while on crutches. How odd—I never even noticed those two steps before. As I stood there, contemplating how to leap this latest hurdle, somebody felt bad, or perhaps just got tired of waiting for me to get out of the way. Regardless of the motivation, the door was held open for me by an older gentleman, who seemed to enjoy the show more than I would have preferred, as I struggled to scale those abnormally tall steps and still remain upright. I am sure I resembled a three-legged elephant attempting to haul itself up Mount Everest while lugging an over-burdened load, just for the grins of it. But really, did he have to chuckle like that as he attentively watched me struggle?
Once inside the school, I had to stop and rest for a second or two. Passersby began asking me if I was okay. I wondered that myself. I was 40-something years old in 100+ degree heat, carrying a hot, heavy pack and wearing a 40-pound cast, which I could barely drag across the floor, let alone carry with my knee jauntily bent like they show in the movies. I had just done the equivalent of the marathon mile, and was bright red from heat, exhaustion, and embarrassment. Add to that, I was huffing like a locomotive and my mouth was as dry as the Sahara. “What was there not to be okay about in that?” I thought, glancing longingly at the water fountain, debating the merits of making the 25-foot detour to get a swallow of tepid water. But alas, I was fatigued enough that I already feared I might not have the strength to make it all the way to my assigned area without adding detours for frivolous things like water.
Sighing heavily, I resolutely turned to face the direction of my classroom, which was located all the way past the offices, the library, the computer lab, and about a dozen other rooms. My frustration reigned supreme when it occurred to me, from where I now stood, I would have to go back the direction I had just trekked and nearly the same distance as well. I needed to be literally almost directly across from the “handicap” area where I had started out to begin with. So basically, I was making a “V” pattern! Who designed this layout anyway? It certainly was not a woman with a broken ankle.
I hobbled thru the maze of backpacks skulking about the floor, with their straps outstretched, like so many bear traps, trying to ensnare my hapless crutches. Adding to the obstacle course-like fun, were the extended legs of their owners, as they lounged against the walls, gossiping with each other. As if this were not challenging enough, I was also trying to avoid colliding with their rushing cohorts as they dashed past me.
My saving grace as I navigated this jungle, was that I had wised up to my crutches’ frequent tendency to either lag behind or go on without me. I began to feel like the little engine that could, repeating the refrain in my mind, “I can do this, I can do this, I can do this . . .” Meanwhile, the little devil on my shoulder kept saying: “No you can’t, no you can’t, no you can’t . . .”
Nevertheless, through what must have been divine intervention, I finally arrived at my destination. But, as I looked across the yawning expanse of chairs to where I usually sat in the front row, my already exhausted arms protested loudly, “Forget about it. You try and make it that far and we’ll file a grievance!” Obliging them, I collapsed into the first chair I came to. The only problem with this idea was that my eyes once again failed to transmit critical spatial data. The chair that was closest happened to be a youth size chair/desk combo; as such, it was terribly uncomfortable for an adult-sized person, such as me.
As I squeezed my derriere into the warm plastic contraption, several girls came up to inquire what had happened to their oldest classmate. One even asked what I had ‘done to myself.’ What an interesting concept! Did she really think I did this on purpose? I could only imagine the scenarios they had playing out in their minds. Has anyone ever gotten up one morning and said, “Today, I am going to break my ankle,” in the same way they say, “Today, I am going to the mall.”?
An especially thoughtful young girl surmised from my lack of verbal response that I could not pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth, even if I could have formulated an intelligible response. She just went and got me a miniscule paper cup of water from the lab sink across the room, it being a well-known fact that I usually carried a jumbo mug of water everywhere I went. In my dehydrated state, it seemed far less than the two ounces that it really was. Still, I was grateful for her thoughtfulness, as it probably saved my life.
In the next moment, the teacher, who had just entered the room, skidded to a halt at the sight of the circus surrounding me. I wanted to crawl under the desk and hide. She decided not to join the show; instead, she chose to proceed with her lecture immediately. Just as she started, someone kindly produced a rickety folding chair to prop my leg up on.
I am beginning to think I am the kind of person who could find fault even in the silver linings of the darkest storm clouds, because I later came to resent that particular gift. I quickly recognized that if I sat straight up in the chair/desk/torture devise thing I had chosen, I couldn’t prop my clunky cast up high enough to keep my leg from throbbing. I even tried turning sideways and shoving my still overstuffed pack under my heel to get it higher. By doing so, however, I couldn’t use the half desk to hold my books.
Further complicating matters, was the folding chair itself. Did I mention it was rickety? It groaned, creaked, protested, and threatened to collapse completely every time I shifted even a fraction of an inch. To my further mortification, every head turned to stare at me each time it did, as if trying to determine what was causing the ruckus in the front corner of the room. Luckily, after a bit of trial and error, I found that by sitting precariously on one cheek and balancing my papers on top of a stack of books in my lap, I was able to take notes and remain unobtrusively quiet for a spell. I was rightfully proud of that little success.
Apparently, I was still doomed to take center stage one way or the other. During a particularly quiet lull, some vile, invisible gremlin decided to knock my metal crutches from where they had been propped against the wall on the other side of the aisle. They dutifully crashed onto the concrete floor with a resounding clatter. I can’t imagine why every person felt they should startle, and then turn in unison to stare at me again. I didn’t do it. College kids, as well as some professors, can be so thoughtless when they stare at an innocent woman like that. I just turned and stared at the crutches as if to say, “Yeah, so why did you do that?”
I could see the unspoken, too oft repeated, question in their stares. I thought, “Let’s examine the facts once more.” Here I sit trying to wedge my adult-size posterior into a junior-high size chair thing, wearing this enormous cast on my painfully swollen, black and blue lower limb, which was now balancing on a folding chair that I am sure had once been rejected by even the Salvation Army, trying to blend into the woodwork and not keep drawing attention to myself, only to find I am now being threatened by demonic crutches. What could I say? Did I really look like I was “okay?”
The poor teacher was by this point so discombobulated she forgot what she had been saying and everyone laughed at both of us. In what was, most likely sheer desperation, the teacher threw up her hands in a sign of resignation and announced an unscheduled break. For my part, I was now searching for the shortest route to my van; planning to never return to this school again.
I glanced at the door as the masses swarmed from their seats. It took me only a split second to become cognizant of the fact that somehow, I had shifted so much that no one could get out the door without stepping over my crutches, leg, and reject of a folding chair. One of the guys asked if he could “help me move my leg;” not my chair or pack or crutches, mind you. “What!” my brain fumed, “Do I look incapable of simply moving my own leg now?” The impertinence of the little twerp! Given enough time, I could get it, the crutches, the pack, and the chair moved. Granted, their break may be over by then, but so what; that was a price I was willing to make them pay. Can’t they leave a girl with some dignity?
Everyone left the room, except for the teacher, a diehard overachiever, and me. Clinching the rim of my little wrinkled Dixie cup in my mouth, I snagged those wicked crutches off the floor and clomped across the room to the sink, refilling it countless times. Those of us left in the room were jolted, as once again, one of the possessed crutches crashed loudly to the floor. Bless her heart, this time the teacher asked me if I needed help. I grinned sheepishly, wordlessly admitting that I was sorry to be more disruptive than a 4th grade boy. Secretly, I was beginning to wonder if the help everyone felt I needed was really psychiatric in nature.
As the bulk of the students sauntered back into the room, refreshed from their unexpected little break, they must have realized that once again they would have to wait while I snagged the errant crutch off the floor, then hobble all the way back to my seat. Another kid asked me if I was okay now and if I needed any help. I think it should be considered cruel and unusual punishment to ask a woman wearing an 80 pound cast on her leg and dealing with possessed crutches the same questions over and over. Is it not glaringly obvious by now that there is nothing okay about me today? If I was “okay” rather than crazy, I would be in my air conditioned home, with my leg high above my heart resting comfortably on a cushy pillow like a reasonable person! I would most certainly NOT be here in this humid, crowded classroom with rivulets of sweat making me itch as they ran down my body sloshing into my cast; nor, would I be guzzling water like a camel or trying to retrieve my run-away crutch using its mate.
Before I could accomplish anything with the crutch lying tauntingly on the floor, a do-gooder snatched it up and handed it back to me. What could I say to that? I just mumbled what I hoped sounded like “thanks” and wryly pointed out that it had tried to commit crutch-icide by flinging itself to the floor.
Returning to my seat, I found the dilapidated metal folding chair was gone and in its place, a nice quiet plastic one. Further, my entire ensemble had been moved away from the door. No one said a word, but I am sure bets had been placed to see if I could still manage to create a ruckus with this one. After I sat down, the girl behind me quietly took the crutches, placing them on the floor as if to say they were not going to fall over, startling another year off the groups’ collective lives. She, unfortunately for me, had chosen the other side of my chair/desk, completely out of my reach. That is when it finally dawned on me. They were not simply being nice. They really just wanted to have a sporting chance to escape when class was over, before I could create a bottleneck in the doorway. In all fairness, I am sure they were sincerely trying to be kind, in a teenage, brain-dead sort of way. Perhaps I was just a wee bit testy. After all, I had lived on serious pain killers for the past few days and had been forced to quit cold turkey this morning in order to “safely” drive my van. By the end of the 4-hour class, my cast was more like a tourniquet than a supportive friend. So I had to wonder if this was all worth the hassle. Did I really need an education anyway?
I glanced up, elation filling my soul, as I noted a janitor opening a door across the hall to take a big bag of trash straight out to the dumpster parked, coincidentally, just a few feet from my van. This door possessed the desirable quality of having only a small lip over which to maneuver my crutches. Swiftly on the heels of this jubilation came irritation at my own stupidity. I had seen that door before, but had assumed (there is that word again) that it was kept locked and had one of those little alarms that screamed like a banshee when opened without permission. But alas—alarm or no—I now had a new escape plan! This thought cheered me considerably.
When class ended, I struggled to reach my crutches. After much struggle, one of those nice kids, noting my predicament, picked them up and brought them around to the open side of the desk. Not coincidentally, I believe, he happened to be the last one out of the room, the teacher having fled the scene of the crime. You will never convince me they didn’t conspire together planning that one! As I un-wedged myself once again , feeling my skin pull as I peeled my sweaty, sticky body free of the plastic seat, I became aware that those innumerable water refills had not only dissolved my Dixie cup, but had left me one unintended consequence. It just figures!
Shrugging my backpack over my aching shoulders, I gimped to the door. I was thrilled to find a modern day Good Samaritan waiting for me, offering to hold doors for me as well as carry my gigantic backpack across the Sahara desert to my van. Now I was torn. I really needed to go potty—and soon! Did I dare push my luck asking this youngster to wait for me to return, risking he might come to his senses and escape while I was occupied? Getting here from the car had only taken me 15-20 minutes. Surely, I could make it to the restroom and back in half that time. Decisions, decisions. Being the brave woman that I am, I did what any other self-respecting nut job would do under the circumstances. I told my bladder to tough it out. When I made it to the car without embarrassing myself or tinkling into my already soggy cast, I nearly sobbed with relief.
Consequently, I drove home like a Star Wars Jedi with Darth Vader on his tail, to the cool comfort of my own bathroom and my own bed to rest.
As I lay in my bed reviewing the day, I made mental notes of my many errors. Reviewing the day, I determined since tomorrow’s class was in a brand new building across campus it had to be fully handicap accessible. I would probably be wise to forego the crutches, however, and use my mom’s manual wheelchair instead. My last thought before I drifted into oblivion for the rest of the day was, “Humbling as using a wheelchair would be, it couldn’t come close to what I had endured this day.” As you will see in part two, I might have been overly optimistic my assumptions of how the next day would go.
As a result of this experience, never again will I pretend to know what it’s like walking in another’s shoes. I have learned that the day you get really cocky and assume you know what that feels like, is the day you are ripe for one of life’s great hands-on lessons.
As a side note: My pain and exhaustion did have had an upside, since I was groggy from again taking pain meds, I could not be trusted to use a knife or hot burner to cook supper. Therefore, my smart-aleck daughters got stuck cooking that night. Revenge is sometimes sweetly poetic that way.
To be continued . . .
I broke my right ankle on July 15th; then on the 17th my education began in earnest. This particular hot, humid morning, I was preparing to return to college after a pain-filled weekend. I recall thinking to myself, “everything is handicapped accessible nowadays; therefore, getting into school should be no big deal.” And, “If I can drive with my right foot on the pedals, my left should work the same. Besides, if I can attend school and maintain a perfect GPA while raising 5 children, this little setback should be a snap.”
The first inkling I had of how truly wrong we can be in making assumptions such as these, was when I expected to pull out of my driveway smoothly, with my teens (soon to be drivers), in tow. I hit the gas, as I normally did. Unfortunately, my left foot did not get that particular memo, because we took off like a rocket ship, slinging gravel all over the place. From somewhere in the seats behind me, I heard excited male voices exclaiming, “Wow, mom, do I get to drive like that when I get my permit this fall?” And, from another, “That was totally cool, mom. Can we back up and do it again?” I just smiled benevolently, until I heard the girl voices grouse, “Good grief, mom! I hope none of the neighbors heard or saw that. Can I just walk to school today or call Ellie for a ride? That might be safer anyway.” I bit my tongue, then reminded them that it was never safer to ride with a new driver. The child must have believed my ears were broken as well as my ankle, because I swear I heard her mutter something like, “I seriously doubt that’s the case today. We will probably die, or at least suffer whiplash, before we make it to the high school.” To which I rejoined, that I would get the kinks out in a mile or two, and they should just be patient. She wasn’t; but it made me feel better to say it, just the same.
I never realized that driving with your left foot, while balancing your right foot, snuggly cocooned in a 10-pound plaster cast, pillowed on the dashboard, ought to be considered an Olympic event. Did you know it takes specialized skills and practice to drive a motorized vehicle with the left foot when you are used to doing it all with your right one? I didn’t, until just that moment. See what I mean about life giving us an education? Our van lurched down the road in a sudden heave/lunge kind of motion. I kept forgetting which pedal was the gas and which was the brake. Really, my brain knew the answer to that; but, apparently my left foot was having a difficult time with simple commands. It seemed in shock to suddenly be carrying the full load.
As teenagers are known to do, upon arriving at their school, very much alive, without the predicted whiplash, I might add, those ungrateful kids didn’t even bother to say something to show they appreciated my sacrifices on their behalf. A simple acknowledgment like “Gee, mom, I know how badly you must be hurting right now. Thank you so much for driving us so we didn’t have to ride the dreaded bus.” Or even, “You are the Greatest!” would have filled the bill. What I got instead was them threatening to rush out of the van en masse, and hug the principal, just to demonstrate how happy they were to be free of what was now referred to as the “death trap on wheels.” Firing a parting shot over my bow, the smart-aleck daughter half-jokingly remarked to her brother, she was “just grateful the school’s driveway was paved so her friends wouldn’t be pelted and killed by the inevitable spray of gravel when I departed.” Why would she say such a thing? I now had the kinks worked out of my system. The rest of the day had to be better than chauffeuring ungrateful teenagers around anyway.
Upon making it safely into town, to my college campus, I made another erroneous assumption, for which I would soon pay dearly. I assumed it would be prudent to park in the handicapped parking slot, as my van had handicap plates for my husband’s sake. I decided, for today, I definitely fit the criteria. I further convinced myself, “Handicap parking spots are always the ones that are in the closest proximity to the entrance.” Regarding this, I am still amazed that my own eyes did not refute this assumption. It seemed they were unwilling to transmit discrepancies, such as how the handicap spot I parked in was actually further from the front door than the regular spaces further down the row. Honestly! My brain must have been jostled when I fell and broke my ankle.
Basking in the success of having struggled into the straps of my heavily laden backpack, I was victorious in remaining balanced and upright on the flimsy metal sticks that they pass off for crutches. Like the trouper—that I constantly encourage each of my children to be—I proceeded to cross the deceptively short distance to the school entrance.
Unfortunately for me, reality began to catch up about a third of the way to the front door of the building. That was when the realization dawned that when using crutches, one has to move in an unnatural, heave/lunge motion, just as my van had, activating muscles I never knew existed, let alone used before. Using crutches would ordinarily be a tolerable temporary substitute for walking on two feet, however, coupled with the added weight now on my back, it did unexpected things to my sense of balance. Consequently, as I struggled to keep from tipping over backwards by adopting a hunchback of Notre Dane posture, while continuing to maneuver in a semi-forward motion, I was rapidly running out of steam. By the time I was halfway to the door, I was exhausted and puffing like an old-time steam engine. Also, there should be an Olympic competition for this.
Finally arriving at the front of the building, there stood a couple of steps taunting me to hurdle over them as I held the door opens. In a million years, this could not be accomplished while on crutches. How odd—I never even noticed those two steps before. As I stood there, contemplating how to leap this latest hurdle, somebody felt bad, or perhaps just got tired of waiting for me to get out of the way. Regardless of the motivation, the door was held open for me by an older gentleman, who seemed to enjoy the show more than I would have preferred, as I struggled to scale those abnormally tall steps and still remain upright. I am sure I resembled a three-legged elephant attempting to haul itself up Mount Everest while lugging an over-burdened load, just for the grins of it. But really, did he have to chuckle like that as he attentively watched me struggle?
Once inside the school, I had to stop and rest for a second or two. Passersby began asking me if I was okay. I wondered that myself. I was 40-something years old in 100+ degree heat, carrying a hot, heavy pack and wearing a 40-pound cast, which I could barely drag across the floor, let alone carry with my knee jauntily bent like they show in the movies. I had just done the equivalent of the marathon mile, and was bright red from heat, exhaustion, and embarrassment. Add to that, I was huffing like a locomotive and my mouth was as dry as the Sahara. “What was there not to be okay about in that?” I thought, glancing longingly at the water fountain, debating the merits of making the 25-foot detour to get a swallow of tepid water. But alas, I was fatigued enough that I already feared I might not have the strength to make it all the way to my assigned area without adding detours for frivolous things like water.
Sighing heavily, I resolutely turned to face the direction of my classroom, which was located all the way past the offices, the library, the computer lab, and about a dozen other rooms. My frustration reigned supreme when it occurred to me, from where I now stood, I would have to go back the direction I had just trekked and nearly the same distance as well. I needed to be literally almost directly across from the “handicap” area where I had started out to begin with. So basically, I was making a “V” pattern! Who designed this layout anyway? It certainly was not a woman with a broken ankle.
I hobbled thru the maze of backpacks skulking about the floor, with their straps outstretched, like so many bear traps, trying to ensnare my hapless crutches. Adding to the obstacle course-like fun, were the extended legs of their owners, as they lounged against the walls, gossiping with each other. As if this were not challenging enough, I was also trying to avoid colliding with their rushing cohorts as they dashed past me.
My saving grace as I navigated this jungle, was that I had wised up to my crutches’ frequent tendency to either lag behind or go on without me. I began to feel like the little engine that could, repeating the refrain in my mind, “I can do this, I can do this, I can do this . . .” Meanwhile, the little devil on my shoulder kept saying: “No you can’t, no you can’t, no you can’t . . .”
Nevertheless, through what must have been divine intervention, I finally arrived at my destination. But, as I looked across the yawning expanse of chairs to where I usually sat in the front row, my already exhausted arms protested loudly, “Forget about it. You try and make it that far and we’ll file a grievance!” Obliging them, I collapsed into the first chair I came to. The only problem with this idea was that my eyes once again failed to transmit critical spatial data. The chair that was closest happened to be a youth size chair/desk combo; as such, it was terribly uncomfortable for an adult-sized person, such as me.
As I squeezed my derriere into the warm plastic contraption, several girls came up to inquire what had happened to their oldest classmate. One even asked what I had ‘done to myself.’ What an interesting concept! Did she really think I did this on purpose? I could only imagine the scenarios they had playing out in their minds. Has anyone ever gotten up one morning and said, “Today, I am going to break my ankle,” in the same way they say, “Today, I am going to the mall.”?
An especially thoughtful young girl surmised from my lack of verbal response that I could not pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth, even if I could have formulated an intelligible response. She just went and got me a miniscule paper cup of water from the lab sink across the room, it being a well-known fact that I usually carried a jumbo mug of water everywhere I went. In my dehydrated state, it seemed far less than the two ounces that it really was. Still, I was grateful for her thoughtfulness, as it probably saved my life.
In the next moment, the teacher, who had just entered the room, skidded to a halt at the sight of the circus surrounding me. I wanted to crawl under the desk and hide. She decided not to join the show; instead, she chose to proceed with her lecture immediately. Just as she started, someone kindly produced a rickety folding chair to prop my leg up on.
I am beginning to think I am the kind of person who could find fault even in the silver linings of the darkest storm clouds, because I later came to resent that particular gift. I quickly recognized that if I sat straight up in the chair/desk/torture devise thing I had chosen, I couldn’t prop my clunky cast up high enough to keep my leg from throbbing. I even tried turning sideways and shoving my still overstuffed pack under my heel to get it higher. By doing so, however, I couldn’t use the half desk to hold my books.
Further complicating matters, was the folding chair itself. Did I mention it was rickety? It groaned, creaked, protested, and threatened to collapse completely every time I shifted even a fraction of an inch. To my further mortification, every head turned to stare at me each time it did, as if trying to determine what was causing the ruckus in the front corner of the room. Luckily, after a bit of trial and error, I found that by sitting precariously on one cheek and balancing my papers on top of a stack of books in my lap, I was able to take notes and remain unobtrusively quiet for a spell. I was rightfully proud of that little success.
Apparently, I was still doomed to take center stage one way or the other. During a particularly quiet lull, some vile, invisible gremlin decided to knock my metal crutches from where they had been propped against the wall on the other side of the aisle. They dutifully crashed onto the concrete floor with a resounding clatter. I can’t imagine why every person felt they should startle, and then turn in unison to stare at me again. I didn’t do it. College kids, as well as some professors, can be so thoughtless when they stare at an innocent woman like that. I just turned and stared at the crutches as if to say, “Yeah, so why did you do that?”
I could see the unspoken, too oft repeated, question in their stares. I thought, “Let’s examine the facts once more.” Here I sit trying to wedge my adult-size posterior into a junior-high size chair thing, wearing this enormous cast on my painfully swollen, black and blue lower limb, which was now balancing on a folding chair that I am sure had once been rejected by even the Salvation Army, trying to blend into the woodwork and not keep drawing attention to myself, only to find I am now being threatened by demonic crutches. What could I say? Did I really look like I was “okay?”
The poor teacher was by this point so discombobulated she forgot what she had been saying and everyone laughed at both of us. In what was, most likely sheer desperation, the teacher threw up her hands in a sign of resignation and announced an unscheduled break. For my part, I was now searching for the shortest route to my van; planning to never return to this school again.
I glanced at the door as the masses swarmed from their seats. It took me only a split second to become cognizant of the fact that somehow, I had shifted so much that no one could get out the door without stepping over my crutches, leg, and reject of a folding chair. One of the guys asked if he could “help me move my leg;” not my chair or pack or crutches, mind you. “What!” my brain fumed, “Do I look incapable of simply moving my own leg now?” The impertinence of the little twerp! Given enough time, I could get it, the crutches, the pack, and the chair moved. Granted, their break may be over by then, but so what; that was a price I was willing to make them pay. Can’t they leave a girl with some dignity?
Everyone left the room, except for the teacher, a diehard overachiever, and me. Clinching the rim of my little wrinkled Dixie cup in my mouth, I snagged those wicked crutches off the floor and clomped across the room to the sink, refilling it countless times. Those of us left in the room were jolted, as once again, one of the possessed crutches crashed loudly to the floor. Bless her heart, this time the teacher asked me if I needed help. I grinned sheepishly, wordlessly admitting that I was sorry to be more disruptive than a 4th grade boy. Secretly, I was beginning to wonder if the help everyone felt I needed was really psychiatric in nature.
As the bulk of the students sauntered back into the room, refreshed from their unexpected little break, they must have realized that once again they would have to wait while I snagged the errant crutch off the floor, then hobble all the way back to my seat. Another kid asked me if I was okay now and if I needed any help. I think it should be considered cruel and unusual punishment to ask a woman wearing an 80 pound cast on her leg and dealing with possessed crutches the same questions over and over. Is it not glaringly obvious by now that there is nothing okay about me today? If I was “okay” rather than crazy, I would be in my air conditioned home, with my leg high above my heart resting comfortably on a cushy pillow like a reasonable person! I would most certainly NOT be here in this humid, crowded classroom with rivulets of sweat making me itch as they ran down my body sloshing into my cast; nor, would I be guzzling water like a camel or trying to retrieve my run-away crutch using its mate.
Before I could accomplish anything with the crutch lying tauntingly on the floor, a do-gooder snatched it up and handed it back to me. What could I say to that? I just mumbled what I hoped sounded like “thanks” and wryly pointed out that it had tried to commit crutch-icide by flinging itself to the floor.
Returning to my seat, I found the dilapidated metal folding chair was gone and in its place, a nice quiet plastic one. Further, my entire ensemble had been moved away from the door. No one said a word, but I am sure bets had been placed to see if I could still manage to create a ruckus with this one. After I sat down, the girl behind me quietly took the crutches, placing them on the floor as if to say they were not going to fall over, startling another year off the groups’ collective lives. She, unfortunately for me, had chosen the other side of my chair/desk, completely out of my reach. That is when it finally dawned on me. They were not simply being nice. They really just wanted to have a sporting chance to escape when class was over, before I could create a bottleneck in the doorway. In all fairness, I am sure they were sincerely trying to be kind, in a teenage, brain-dead sort of way. Perhaps I was just a wee bit testy. After all, I had lived on serious pain killers for the past few days and had been forced to quit cold turkey this morning in order to “safely” drive my van. By the end of the 4-hour class, my cast was more like a tourniquet than a supportive friend. So I had to wonder if this was all worth the hassle. Did I really need an education anyway?
I glanced up, elation filling my soul, as I noted a janitor opening a door across the hall to take a big bag of trash straight out to the dumpster parked, coincidentally, just a few feet from my van. This door possessed the desirable quality of having only a small lip over which to maneuver my crutches. Swiftly on the heels of this jubilation came irritation at my own stupidity. I had seen that door before, but had assumed (there is that word again) that it was kept locked and had one of those little alarms that screamed like a banshee when opened without permission. But alas—alarm or no—I now had a new escape plan! This thought cheered me considerably.
When class ended, I struggled to reach my crutches. After much struggle, one of those nice kids, noting my predicament, picked them up and brought them around to the open side of the desk. Not coincidentally, I believe, he happened to be the last one out of the room, the teacher having fled the scene of the crime. You will never convince me they didn’t conspire together planning that one! As I un-wedged myself once again , feeling my skin pull as I peeled my sweaty, sticky body free of the plastic seat, I became aware that those innumerable water refills had not only dissolved my Dixie cup, but had left me one unintended consequence. It just figures!
Shrugging my backpack over my aching shoulders, I gimped to the door. I was thrilled to find a modern day Good Samaritan waiting for me, offering to hold doors for me as well as carry my gigantic backpack across the Sahara desert to my van. Now I was torn. I really needed to go potty—and soon! Did I dare push my luck asking this youngster to wait for me to return, risking he might come to his senses and escape while I was occupied? Getting here from the car had only taken me 15-20 minutes. Surely, I could make it to the restroom and back in half that time. Decisions, decisions. Being the brave woman that I am, I did what any other self-respecting nut job would do under the circumstances. I told my bladder to tough it out. When I made it to the car without embarrassing myself or tinkling into my already soggy cast, I nearly sobbed with relief.
Consequently, I drove home like a Star Wars Jedi with Darth Vader on his tail, to the cool comfort of my own bathroom and my own bed to rest.
As I lay in my bed reviewing the day, I made mental notes of my many errors. Reviewing the day, I determined since tomorrow’s class was in a brand new building across campus it had to be fully handicap accessible. I would probably be wise to forego the crutches, however, and use my mom’s manual wheelchair instead. My last thought before I drifted into oblivion for the rest of the day was, “Humbling as using a wheelchair would be, it couldn’t come close to what I had endured this day.” As you will see in part two, I might have been overly optimistic my assumptions of how the next day would go.
As a result of this experience, never again will I pretend to know what it’s like walking in another’s shoes. I have learned that the day you get really cocky and assume you know what that feels like, is the day you are ripe for one of life’s great hands-on lessons.
As a side note: My pain and exhaustion did have had an upside, since I was groggy from again taking pain meds, I could not be trusted to use a knife or hot burner to cook supper. Therefore, my smart-aleck daughters got stuck cooking that night. Revenge is sometimes sweetly poetic that way.
To be continued . . .
Copyright © 2014 by Rent's Due Publications
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or performance of any kind, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, click a button on any page to send email with details of the request.
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