Everyone here is broken. Our bodies, that is. Broken and trying to heal. But it’s okay, it’s normalized. We’re safe here. There are wide aisles for all the wheelchairs, empty spots near the chairs so able-bodied loved ones can sit near those who are wheel-bound. There’s a feeling that we’re all survivors of something. We’re all dealing with some sort of pain, and you can see it on our bodies. 

Intentionally uncomfortable wheelchairs

Most people are on 4 wheels instead of two feet. An older black gentleman was wheeling around like he’s been in these halls dozens of times, knowing each corner and turn, and exactly how much space there is to do a 180 degree pivot in the elevator.

A teenage boy with blond highlights had a sort of cast on his ring finger. A middle-aged white man had a type of flexible support on his arm, not a cast, but not a full sling, either. It’s amazing the new technology that’s made its way up here to the 4th floor. 

A staff woman wheels an 80-year old man up to the check in desk, and I immediately have sympathy that this old fella has got to sit in the same type of hospital wheelchair I’m in. You’d  almost think the seats of these things were purposefully designed to be uncomfortable–with a hard horizontal pole going across where your butt goes, the precise area you’d want some cushion.

But I assume positive intent and tell myself that it was either a design mistake, an able-bodied man who never actually sat in the chair, or maybe he did, but he wanted to add that extra motivation to not get too comfortable being rolled around and to do the work of recovery. 

Broken bones and intact spirits

Anyway, this 80-year old was comfortable enough to make a joke to the receptionist as he was checking in just “to keep her on her toes,” he laughed. I wonder it’s less about keeping her on her toes as it is to prove that he’s more than just a broken body, that his spirit is still intact. And I wonder if he’s proving it to her, or to himself. 

The receptionist lady has a very soothing voice that seems to be her natural tone, and I complimented her on it. It’s funny how those things we don’t even try at often make the biggest difference. The genuine smile. The caring voice. The automatic hand gesture to offer help without being too imposing. The patience to not rush you to hurry up and find a seat–or, a spot to park your seat. It’s those little things that make this feeling of brokenness not feel so dire and hopeless.

The energy in an orthopedic waiting room

Sitting there, I imagined a how different a VA orthopedic center must be. The energy in those waiting rooms must be very heavy. I mean, those are survivors. We are too, but not quite the same. I wonder if the doctors make it a habit to thank every patient for their service when they walk in to treat them. I wonder if there’s a type of reverence in the air.

Here, there’s a spirit of compassion. These are normal folks who got hurt, somehow or another. There’s no blame or fault needed here. The focus is less on the problem, and more on the solution. 

When my name was called, my friend rolled me past the world of different treatment rooms. A casting room. An X-ray room. A gym. A rehab center with all these cool looking contraptions. There’s consultation rooms. And a doctor in the hallway orating his patient notes into his phone. The good thing about being rolled around is that you don’t need to look where you’re going, you can take in whatever you want while you leave the navigating to someone else.

Seeing the orthopedic specialist

The doctor came in and didn’t bother looking at my foot, the X-rays were all he needed. When he started trying to explain things, I interrupted, “Which zone is the fifth metatarsal fracture in?” He paused, taken aback. “I see you’ve done some research. This is zone one. This zone has the highest chance of recovery with a conservative, non-surgical treatment,” he said. 

“So it’s a pseudo Jones Fracture?” I asked, recalling back to the literature I’d lost sleep stayed up all night researching. “I prefer not to call it that when I teach my students. That phrasing leads to confusion,” he said. I could tell he respected my ability to advocate for myself, and I felt more trusting of him as someone who took my questions seriously. I asked about the rates of nonunion and refracture and medication contraindications. Just 15 minutes later, I left with the best possible outcome–a fracture, my first broken bone, that won’t require surgery to heal. Phewwwww. I was so happy. 

On my way out of the office, there was a lone line of folks in wheelchairs waiting to check in for their appointments: I guess I got hurt at just the right time.

The perks of being ‘handicap’

Downstairs, a sign said seniors and people with handicaps get a $2 discount on their valet parking. “That’s you,” my friend Thad said, looking at me in the wheelchair. Oh, I guess that is me, now. I suppose I should take advantage of the perks. 

While we waited outside for the car, I had to take the chance to scoot around in the wheelchair on my own for a minute. I mean, when else will I get the opportunity? I practiced going forward and backward and spinning in place and doing turns. I was impressed with the amount of physical energy it takes to keep some momentum. I’d be JACKED if I had to use this everywhere, I thought.

Wheelchair not slowing me down

There were two older ladies in wheelchairs standing (sitting?) still to the side and I wondered for a second if it was disrespectful to be doing circles in front of them. Was it wrong to be happy? Should I tone it down? This is a hospital after all, most people aren’t too happy to be here. 

Before I had too much time to debate it, Thad put the brake on my tires so he didn’t have to worry about me rolling away while he tracked down the valet guy. I guess it was the equivalent of child safety locks on a car. I didn’t mind. I mean, if I still have enough of my spirit intact that I need brakes on my wheelchair to rein me in from fooling around at the hospital, I’d say that’s a pretty good day.