One Hop at a Time

Then, the day after Yom Kippur, I slipped down two stairs. My leg was askew, at an odd angle. I didn’t have to be told it was broken. Calmly, I called my son. “Please tell Daddy I’ve broken my leg. You’ll need to call an ambulance.”

I remember very little after. Hours later, I woke up in a hospital bed, my leg encased in a huge, heavy white cast. Later I learned that my leg was so badly broken that the X-rays were passed around the hospital department.

“Lift your leg off the bed!” the doctor instructed on his first visit. The cast was heavier than me. The most I could achieve was two inches. A few days later, sporting a new, lighter cast, two physiotherapists appeared to get me walking. I was eager to get started, after all, my ambition was to walk my son’s kallah down to the chuppah.

Standing up for the first time, one leg rigid, warnings not to put down my foot ringing in my ears, was extraordinarily scary. Crutches were useless. I just tipped backwards. The wonderful physiotherapists brought a new friend — an elbow frame. It resembled a walking frame but taller. Your elbows rest on either side to steady you. One tentative hop at a time, I managed to get across my room and then back to bed. It took me a full hour! And left me exhausted.