Letter to my Broken Foot

 To: 5th Metatarsal, c/o my right foot

Dearest Precious Tiny Piece of Bone,

I'm sorry I never knew your name until you were broken. I never knew how instrumental you were for balance and walking. With that, I never realized how much moving and walking defined the boundaries of my life. You're only an inch or two long, but without you in tact my whole life has been enclosed, shrunken, transformed. 

I never knew what you looked like before you were broken. Now I've seen quite a handful of x-rays from all different angles. I saw your jagged, diagonal break. The doctor called you unstable. (Her words, not mine, please don't be offended.) I've been watching as you try to fill in the gap and knit yourself back together. Several times my fate has been sealed by the looks of you, encoded and enclosed into a shiny CD of the digital scan. Never realized what power you have over me!

One instant you were whole, the next, fractured. The innocent victim of too much pressure and force at once, twisted upon a concrete stair. A quick misstep leading to a long and lugubrious recovery that still edges on, day by day. I was just trying to take out the trash. I didn't mean to break you. To be truthful, I wasn't thinking about you at all.

But since that day, I've been thinking about you a lot. 

I've been mad at you for extending my confinement, for taking my freedom, for making me dependent on others once again, like a child. For weeks you trapped me between two crutches and on couches and cushions. Each movement was a travail. You shut down my glorious homecoming. You stopped me from living the life I'd imagined.

I've been worried about you... Sometimes you still look so pink and tender, I know you're not all right. You've agitated and instigated until the entire sole of my foot tingled and burned. You've created all different colors and shapes and sizes. You're quite the artist!  You've sculpted the whole foot into a puffy pillow.  At times you've turned it blue and purple and white, and now you've decided to make a whole triangle of my foot turn brown until further notice. The doctor says it'll stay like that for a year. You've been busy with this remodeling project. It wasn't one I wanted or needed.

I've blamed you for missing the freshest, most beautiful fall, for canceling appointments and stifling dreams. For losing my stamina, losing momentum.

I know I can't stay mad forever. I know I must acknowledge your 36 (almost 37) years of service. I know I should thank you for a great many downward dogs, attempted jogs, bike rides, walks in the woods, hikes in the mountains. I know you are responsible for my first baby steps and every one since. You got me up and down how many subway stairs? Probably a million by now. 

We played volleyball together, we ran the bases. Remember in softball practice when Coach Perino complimented us for our effort and intensity? Remember in high school when you let me run so hard I puked? Remember in college when I'd make you wear high heels, and the night we walked a few blocks barefoot in the middle of Manhattan? Remember when we took salsa lessons in Ecuador? Remember all the polka step-step-step-hops on the dance floors of our youth? 

We've walked in sand, in grass, on pebbles, through mud. We've jumped off of swings, we've tromped through snow, we've run to catch buses and subways and airplanes. We've stood for the national anthem. We've climbed ladders and fire escapes. We've walked in the rain and in the rainforest; swam in lakes and under waterfalls, I've lifted you up in headstands and great big morning stretches.

Through it all,  you've been there for me, holding me up, supporting me, helping me move along, getting me where I needed to be. 

I suppose I owe it to you to wait. (I suppose I have no choice.) You're taking your time with the spongy callus. You're calling in the osteoblasts. I wanted it to go faster, but it's not up to me.  I suppose I've been too impatient, wishing and willing you to walk and stand when you are still broken. No one can be strong until they've had time to heal. It's okay. Do what you need to do. Take your time.

You will be strong again one day, and so will I. I will witness your colleague and home, my right foot, continue to shrivel and wither, with the knowledge that I will be more aware of your strength in the future. Because you're on strike right now, I will less take for granted my liberty of movement whenever I get it back. I will not just think about, but rather, feel gratitude for the freedom to push down on a gas pedal and drive a car where I want it to go; to walk in the woods; to dance and be free. I will remember what it is like to be so tethered down, so slow and clumsy without your support and I will glory in the ability to move without pain, without compunction, without thinking of you. 

All this it to say: I miss you. I forgive you. Get well soon. I hope to forget about you all in good time. But I know I'll remember you, too.

Love,

Me