by Donnell Ann Bell
I don’t smoke, I rarely drink, and I certainly don’t do drugs. Why then did my family get together and decide an intervention was necessary where I was concerned?
I’ll tell you why. They took away my scooter.
That’s right. I had foot surgery on December 4th and it turned out a bit more complicated than we’d anticipated. A metal-tarsal plate fusion on top of a bunionectomy. Where I had expected to be walking a week or so after surgery, I was informed by my doctor my recovery would actually be six to eight weeks of non-weight bearing on my right foot.
Ghastly news. Horrible news. No driving and I became a virtual recluse over the holidays and all through January. All right. I’m a writer, so being a virtual recluse really isn’t all that terrible. But falling on your face is, let me tell you what. For anyone who knows me, there’s a reason my middle name isn’t “Grace.” And though I practiced and practiced on crutches before the surgery, when it came time to walk on them after the operation, well, fear had a great deal of influence. Before surgery I could land on my right foot. After surgery, landing on it was a no-no.
Maybe I was determined not to make friends with the crutches. But honestly I tried. After falling three times and looking like Social Services should be involved, my husband said enough is enough. With that he was off to Denver and back a while later with the ultimate life saver for anyone who has foot or leg surgery. A scooter!
I adored my husband even more so after that. We have a ranch-style house and that scooter was made for it and for me. Not long after we got it, I put away the crutches for good and soon was zooming all over the place, so much so my daughter was constantly lamenting, “Mom, slow down.”
Where it would take me several minutes to cross the floor with my crutches, sweating and panting, the scooter proved to be my best friend. I slept with it by my bed, by the recliner, in my office. This little transportation mode made my recovery bearable.
But then. . .the cast came off and so did the boot and my doctor said, “You can apply weight again to your foot.” Yay! I was so excited. I wouldgradually be walking again.
Wrong. My son who had come for a visit during that time said, “Okay, Mom, enough slacking. You’ve become too attached to that scooter.” With that he handed my beloved scooter to my husband who whisked it back to the rental place in Denver.
Looking back, I can admit now that they were right. I didn’t like it at the time, and maybe at some point I’ll rewrite my family back into my will. I was lucky. My family recognized I needed help.
In Deadly Recall my recent release from Bell Bridge Books, my protagonist Eden wasn’t so lucky. Truth be told, her family should have called an intervention for her when she was nine years old. But for plot purposes I needed her to carry around some pretty horrific baggage until very handsome, caring detective, could help them break free.