Released from Medical House Arrest

     I had a doctor's appointment on Tuesday, with the result that I have been released from medical house arrest. I can drive again. I can walk outside, and I can put my foot flat on the floor as long as I'm wearing shoes.

    Was I still limping when I left the doctor's office because my foot hurt or because I was afraid it would hurt? Or out of habit?

    The first thing I did was get in the car and drive to Rogue Roasters for a latte. I felt the freedom of a teenager with her first driver's license. I can go where I want when I want. 

    I went to Rogue Roasters and had a latte.

    Then I went to the grocery store, just for the pleasure of walking up and down the aisles and seeing what was there.   

     If I wear the big, restrictive boot, the doctor said, I could take walks outdoors. When I asked if I could walk the quarter-mile down the hill on a gravel road to the mailbox, he raid, "Listen to your foot."

   My foot says, "Not too fast." It says, "I feel swollen. Can you put some ice on me?" It says, "Whew! This is weird." It says, "How nice to feel the floor under my shoe again."

   The day after I drove home, I took my first walk since well before Christmas. I marveled at the hard frost on the dirt road. I skirted storm-strewn puddles. I walked with the nip of fresh air on my cheeks and through sunrays dappled on the path. I walked through the winter silence of the forest. When I stopped to listen to it, I heard an overwintering bird chirping a staccato rhythm in the leaves. I walked a quarter-mile through the woods, a distance which, as I was limping and lurching and stopping frequently to gaze around me, took forty-five minutes.

    It was a joyous walk. 

    I am outdoors again.