I went to see the orthopedic surgeon every two weeks. He was pleased with the progress I was
making. I was optimistic and excited that my quirky rule-following nature had made me an excellent patient. I showed up for my 6 week visit and was told
my healing had surpassed his expectations.
Internal fist bump and congratulatory self-talk instantly commenced, “Sweet! You
freaking rock, Maria! Way to go, girl!” The doctor gave me instructions for easing into life
without the boot. At that point the
likelihood of breaking or injuring my foot again was pretty slim. “Nice!
Okay, let’s move on then.” But transitioning
from wearing a boot 24/7 to walking in a shoe was not smooth and seamless. Apparently I’d grown more attached than I realized to the protection and
security the boot provided.
The moment of stepping away forever from the captivity of
the black boot was disappointing and anti-climactic. Whatever super mom, save-your-precious-daughter
kung fu moves I performed on the stairs that resulted in broken bones and joints in my foot apparently also
displaced a couple bones in my ankle. I
had no range of motion whatsoever. I walked
sideways with stiff, Frankenstein-like steps.
Oh boy! This is going to take
some work. After a chiropractic visit, I
am less awkward walking on my foot and have a list of exercises that should improve my
range of motion over time. My foot aches
and swells easily. But there is visible
progress. I finally recognize my right
foot as the other half of a missing pair, although at this point it resembles a
distant cousin rather than a twin.
My life continues to mirror that of my foot in more ways than
I wish. My moments of despair are
accompanied by hope and healing. But…like
my foot, my progress is slower than I would have hoped or expected. I love stories of miraculous healing and
tender mercies. They inspire me to carry
on when life gets tough. But “…by small
and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6). I was awaiting my defining moment of foot
healing glory…but it never came. Upon
reflection, I realized that healing is almost always a process, not an occasion. I’m learning patience. I’m learning to trust the Lord. Keep moving.
One step at a time. Listen. Obey. Don’t
stop. There are angels round about me,
both on earth and in heaven. I have seen
and felt that reality. But I get
distracted. I catch a glimpse of the
storm that surrounds me and I lose sight of the Savior. My faith wavers and I start to fear. I forget grace. Grace, the strengthening power that comes
from the atonement of Jesus Christ. The
ability Christ has to make up the difference when we have given all we have to
give and still fall short. I lose sight
of it often. Sigh.
This update is not about the moment I stepped out of my
black book. It’s an explanation of my
process, a process that is much more
difficult than I imagined. I'm
cautious, even fearful. I limp. I wobble. I hop.
I instinctively pause on my left leg with flamingo-like balance. I gently flex my foot as I drive. I take a deep breath and smile as I see the road
up ahead. There is hope and joy and
freedom. And then, like a tortoise in
its shell, I retreat to the comfort and protection of my trusty old black
boot. Two steps forward and one step
back. The momentous event of my dreams
was less than glamorous, but my slow and steady process to happiness and
healing continues.
