It’s a small, small world.
Here’s a reality.
When you get home from the hospital, or rehab, or wherever you’ve been, and things have so radically changed, it takes a little while for you to get used to doing even the small things.
I was well prepared to transfer from my wheelchair to a toiler or shower, and to my bed, and to go around the house doing small chores. Those things were all very difficult, and should be celebrated, and I did celebrate them.
But, as time wears on, those things become kind of ingrained in your day, and are often a real pain. Sure, I can make my own breakfast, but it takes me 20 minutes to make a cup of coffee and grab a yogurt. Used to take me about 2. I’d rather just sit on the couch.
Sure, I can take a shower, but I have to ask my wife to help me into the shower stall, and then it takes me abut 20 minutes and a ton of effort and concentration to do something that used to take me 5. I’d rather just sit on the couch.
Sure, I can go out to eat with my family, but I have to make sure the restaurant doesn’t have a step at the door, and that the bathrooms are big enough to fit a wheelchair, and I’d kind of rather just sit on the couch.
At this point, with those thoughts, the world becomes very small.
When I announced this blog on Facebook, an old friend told me about her experience learning to walk after an injury and infection, and that it made her a legitimate agoraphobe.
Here’s what she said:
“I’m a pretty social person and I was very isolated during my initial recovery. It was winter in New Hampshire and besides going down to Boston for check-ups and more hospital stays than I planned for, my world became super small. Luckily, in the spring, the major setbacks were behind me and I was on my way to rehab and my physical therapist were my lifeline and best friends. I got so lucky with my team of doctors.
“But beyond them, I developed a bit of agoraphobia. I hated leaving the house. People kind of scared me. I think my mental capacity had to concentrate on walking rather than output to others and it all felt really hard.”
Amen.
Here’s the thing, though.
It is SO worth it to really try and get up and out and to make the effort, rather than just sitting on the couch, and, believe me, I’m a “sitting on the couch” kinda guy.
Remember those married health care worker friends I mentioned earlier? They invited us over to their house for dinner and kitchen karaoke (which, if you have not tried, I HIGHLY recommend). I was concerned about getting into the house and using the bathroom and all of that stuff, but it was wonderful, it felt normal, and I was so glad to have resumed my regular social life.
I have since been to the movies, and to a lot of restaurants, and concerts. I’ve even done two shows onstage since this all happened.
Does it take some effort? Yes, it does. Is it worth it? YES, it is.
Now, I know it’s harder for some people to just get up and go than others, and I also know that I have the privilege of family and friends that help to facilitate these excursions. I am lucky. I remind myself of that every day.
If you don’t have access, or can’t conceive of getting up and out, then call someone. Talk. Don’t isolate yourself.
These kinds of conditions are isolating in and of themselves. Sinking further into loneliness can only make it worse.
If you’re an amputee like me, you can get some mental health support at the Amputee Coalition. The Hanger Clinic, which is the place where I will be getting my prosthetic, has a peer-to-peer support group called Ampower.
Hell, if you need someone to talk to, I’m here. Leave a comment. I promise to respond.
Anyone who knows me knows that I haven’t always been the person with the sunniest disposition. But I’m looking at this “bonus life” as a chance to change that.
Try and stay open and willing to do, to try, to push. I promise you it’s worth it.
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As always, if you have it in you, please give a thought to donating time or money to Hospice Austin. They do amazing work for people who are going through the hardest thing a person can face.
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