Is that really my foot, that somewhat swollen thing at the end of my leg? The toes are, thankfully, different. There is a pin sticking out of one that will be there for another four weeks. I won't be able to put weight on the front of that foot for that much longer. Crutches will be my regular companion, the challenge not to go fast and risk hitting the pin, or coming down on it. That would render the surgery pointless. So patience is likely the major challenge.
Quite soon after the stitches are removed (ouch!) and the surgeon pronounces that I am doing good work (and I tell him he is), someone else rewraps the foot and, this time, covers the pin at the end of what was until the operation a wandering hammer toe. So I won't know for quite a while now if the foot will transform so that next time I see it, I will recognize it.
What does this have to do with writing? you might well ask. Maybe it means I have scads of time for it while I stick close to home to heal. Or maybe it means everything else takes so long that there is almost no time left in each day for creating anything. Not even revising a story that awaits that careful eye. What can I say? Like many experiences, I suspect I won't know until later how this one has contributed to my life in general and my writing life in particular. I don't even know if I'll write about it elsewhere. But past experience tells me I will. And that this is likely only a beginning. After all, the idea that the foot may turn out not to be mine seems like an interesting premise.
Quite soon after the stitches are removed (ouch!) and the surgeon pronounces that I am doing good work (and I tell him he is), someone else rewraps the foot and, this time, covers the pin at the end of what was until the operation a wandering hammer toe. So I won't know for quite a while now if the foot will transform so that next time I see it, I will recognize it.
What does this have to do with writing? you might well ask. Maybe it means I have scads of time for it while I stick close to home to heal. Or maybe it means everything else takes so long that there is almost no time left in each day for creating anything. Not even revising a story that awaits that careful eye. What can I say? Like many experiences, I suspect I won't know until later how this one has contributed to my life in general and my writing life in particular. I don't even know if I'll write about it elsewhere. But past experience tells me I will. And that this is likely only a beginning. After all, the idea that the foot may turn out not to be mine seems like an interesting premise.
