by Barbara Twardowski
Three times I broke my right foot. Three times in the same place — directly below my big toe.
Strangers would ask why I was on crutches and wearing a cast, and I concocted elaborate stories to explain my temporary impairment.
“Skiing, over the holidays,” I’d say.
“Car accident. The vehicle was totaled so a broken foot is a minor inconvenience.”
“Dancing. My partner has two left feet.”
I rather relished the opportunity to be normal. Using crutches, I could fly. With three legs to walk on, so to speak, I didn’t limp anymore. The crutches gave me stability and a new, exhilarating confidence. I no longer worried that I would fall.
While most able-bodied people would find crutches a nuisance, I was empowered. People opened doors for me. They moved out of my way. But the best part was, they didn’t look at me as though I were different.
The author’s day-to-day life became considerably easier after the purchase of her wheelchair-accessible minivan.
upper body would propel ahead of my feet. I couldn’t stand still either, so I rocked back and forth. I spent a tremendous amount of energy trying No More Teetering to force my body to behave. At cocktail parties, I refused to drink, fearing people would mistake my imbalance for inebriation.
As the doctor talked to me about bracing, I asked the important questions.
“What color is it?”
“It depends on the type you get.
Some are white or flesh-toned.”
“What kind of shoe can I wear with it?”
“It depends.”
I made an appointment with a prosthetics expert, who advised bringing along several pairs of shoes. He showed me a simple AFO ( ankle-foot orthosis) made of white hard plastic with Velcro straps. The only
then the shoe, stood up from my chair and walked across the room.
I was amazed. I wasn’t teetering. I no longer had to hike my foot high up off the ground to take a step. Why had I waited so long to get a brace?
A few years later, I sprained the left foot. I got another brace. And for a while, the braces worked.
And I worked. I kept working until I was seven months pregnant. Throughout my pregnancy, I fell. I used a cane and fell; I used a walker and fell. Finally, my obstetrician said I had to use a wheelchair. The 30 pounds I gained while pregnant were completely throwing off my balance.
I didn’t argue or worry about how I would look. I had to do it for my baby.
The third time I broke my foot, the doctor suggested I wear a leg brace.
“A what?” I was a 26-year-old woman. Braces are ugly. Wasn’t it bad enough that I’d never worn a pair of heels? Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease (CMT) had deformed my feet.
I was repeatedly breaking my foot because it dropped down when I walked. I was literally tripping over my own foot and snapping a bone.
I fell easily. I couldn’t run. My
shoe that would fit around it was my tennis shoe.
I was angry. No way would I wear tennis shoes with my navy blue suit or Liz Claiborne silk dress. And the Velcro caught on my stockings. How could I go to my office job in tennis shoes?
I slid my foot into the brace and
But I hated using the wheelchair in public. The first time my husband and I went out to dinner, the waitress asked him, “What would she like to eat?” Using the wheelchair made me a nonexistent person. I was stunned and shocked.
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