“You can walk in your boot,” my surgeon said.
I was so excited, but wondered at the way he eyed me.
“It’ll hurt,” he pointed out.
Despite those words, I wasn’t worried. I’d been in a lot of pain over the previous months, the result of a bout of Covid that somehow evaded my vaccine jabs and caused me to pass out, resulting in a badly-broken leg. Still, as I faced the man who’d made me the proud new owner of a large titanium plate and eleven screws, I was convinced that I’d be running around in short order.
But I was wrong. My leg had been inactive for a long time. Putting pressure on my foot felt like it was breaking all over again. “Owww!” I yelped as I staggered about in my boot.
“Take it easy!” my sweetie pie said, frowning at my awkward display.
“How long will this take to get back to normal?” I asked my physical therapist. When he agreed with the surgeon that it would be anywhere from six to twelve months, I scoffed. I wondered if they were predicating their replies on the fact that I’m 66. I can’t tell you how many doctors in the last year or two have smiled and reminded me that I’m, um, elderly. Which makes me want to shout that I’ve worked out all my life, I eat right, and get my sleep. Yes, I drink some wine with dinner and have a bit of chocolate everyday, but I’m healthy and certainly not old!
Because I felt the need to research what is considered old age, I will now have to retract my previous statement. Turns out the World Health Organization says old age begins at 60. Sigh…
I have been toddling around for three weeks. Improvment is achingly slow. Sometimes, I still cheat and grab my scooter.
“Have you considered a cane?” I was asked during a PT session.
A chill ran down my spine. A cane? I visualized myself bent over and shuffling, a halo of white hair, a flowery housedress, and some fuzzy slippers. Still, in a fit of frustration, I purchased a walking stick from Amazon. It’s shiny turquoise with a big, square bottom so I won’t fall over. The only thing that made me feel better was the fact that by definition a cane has long been considered a symbol of strength and power, authority and social prestige. While the definition goes on to explain that it is predominately men to whom a cane is a sign of success, I feel secure jumping on the bandwagon.
My cane and I are learning to become friends. I still feel a little quesy when I grab the handle. The first ten steps or so make my leg bark in protest. But there’s no other way to get better. So, for the time being, me and my cane “got a thing, goin’ on,” do, do do…🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Ancient ruins, haunted memories, and a ruthless criminal combine with a touch of mystic presence in this taut mystery about a crime we all must address.
Contemporary Women’s Fiction/Suspense
September 13, 2021
Maggie, a National Park Ranger of Native American descent, is back at The Castle—a six-hundred-year-old pueblo carved into a limestone cliff in Arizona’s Verde Valley. Maggie, who suffers from depression, has been through several traumas: the gang rape she suffered while in the Coast Guard, the sudden death of her ten-year-old son, and a suicide attempt.
One evening, she chases a young Native American boy through the park and gasps as he climbs the face of The Castle cliff and disappears into the pueblo. When searchers find no child, Maggie’s friends believe she’s suffering from depression-induced hallucinations.
Maggie has several men in her life. The baker, newcomer Jim Casey, who always greets her with a warm smile and pink boxes filled with sweet delicacies. Brett Collins, a scuba diver who is doing scientific studies in Montezuma Well, a dangerous cylindrical depression that houses strange creatures found nowhere else on Earth. Dave, an amiable waiter with whom she’s had a one-night stand, and her new boss Glen.
One of these men is a serial rapist and Maggie is his next target. In a thrilling and terrifying denouement, Maggie faces her rapist and conquers her worst fears once and for all.
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