The Mighty Kangaroo

For the past few days, I’ve been admiring kangaroos. This is because I’ve been alone in my house, on crutches after surgery on my left foot, where three bones were cut and spliced and plated and screwed. The OR looked like McIrish’s workshop, I swear. I can sort of weight-bear on my heel, but I’m really good at crutches, thanks to a lifetime of clumsiness. This is my fifth or sixth time needing crutches. So on the second day, I told McIrish he could go to the Cape, where he’s renovating the upstairs bathroom. I swore I’d be fine. After all, my post-op instructions were to sit with my leg elevated and just be. This is essentially how my work day looks, so no problemo!

But it was mucho problemo. How would I get a cup of coffee to my chair? Was I supposed to stand in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, and drink it like an animal or something? How would I get a glass of water? Or dinner? McIrish had cruelly taken Buttercup with him, correctly imagining that a 60-pound puppy might not be the best companion for a woman on crutches, but also depriving me of the chance to teach her to fetch a bottle of wine from the fridge. Here she is, being a perfect and loving angel before McIrish stole her.

And so, I turned to nature, channeling the mighty kangaroo, who not only can carry a nearly grown joey in her pouch, but can also beat the crap out of anyone who threatens her or her baby. As a loving and protective mother and grandmother myself, I identify with this animal. Every mother does. We can bring in six full bags of groceries, a sack of dog food, a 12-pack of paper towels from the car in one trip, all while holding a toddler on our hip. I speak from experience. Thus, I got out my apron and went full-on kanga.

Had I known I’d be alone for four and a half days, I might have bought a bigger apron, like the one Katy No-Pocket is wearing here. Mine has a modest pocket, but it was big enough for me to carry (at varying times) a thermos of coffee or water (or wine, don’t judge, I was bored); utensils; an ice pack; a bottle of Tylenol; my phone; a baggie of cheesecake bars courtesy of my friend Jen; and a plate, because I’m civilized. I crutch-hobble from chair to kitchen, kitchen to chair, empty out the apron and collapse gratefully, then prop my leg up, stick the ice pack behind my knee and sort through the pocket booty.

It's kind of nice, really, having this excuse not to do anything other than basic care and feeding of myself. Huckleberry is here with me, being very cuddly, as I am his only snuggle option. I did a last pass at my upcoming book and sent it in eight days ahead of schedule; watched an entire season of Glow Up, the makeup artist competition; read two books; and ate those cheesecake bars (and a salad). I went to a meeting at the library, because I can drive, and to the doctor’s office for a follow-up. I crutch-pushed a basket of laundry into the mudroom and started that. Really quite bad-ass, don't you think?

My daughter, grandchildren and four of my friends have visited…I may have used my postoperative state to guilt them into coming, but it worked. The first group got to enjoy Percocet Kristan, who laughed and laughedl. Alas, I have a very high pain tolerance, so the Percocet was put away at the end of Day 2. (Plus, those Percocet dreams are crazy.)

McIrish will come home tomorrow, and we will once again lapse into our “honey?/yes, honey” pattern of me asking him for something and him getting it, as he’s had to do too many times in our marriage. But he doesn’t seem to mind, and heck, neither do I. Enforced relaxation, that’s what this is. My goal is to learn to laze about without requiring surgery first. It could happen.