Three weeks ago, I was touring an apartment near Porta Romana when I jammed my left foot against a tiny, almost invisible step. It jarred my body from cowlick to toe-wart. I had to sit for twenty minutes to recover, not that there was pain, but there was a kind of trauma. Fortunately, the conversation was lively, and I forgot about it.
Two weeks ago, I noticed that the first few steps after sitting, even for only a couple of minutes, caused a pain in my left calf. But walking a few meters worked it out, so I thought little of it.
A week ago, after having dined on one of my favorite soups at Vincaffe, I stood and hobbled painfully out the door. I could read Cristiano’s concern even in my peripheral vision. Cristiano is a jogger.
Two days later when Michele suggested we change Thursday’s shiatsu session to the following Monday, I essentially screamed an objection via email. “I can barely walk! I’ll never make it to Monday!” Michele kept Thursday’s session in place.
Friday morning, Renzo saw me hobbling around, quizzed me, and resurrected a pair of crutches he’d used twenty-some years ago.
“Both knees replaced with metal joints,” he explained, tracing the massive incisions with his fingers “three months on these crutches for each knee.”
“You know these crutches well.”
“I know them too well. But worth the pain, my knees have shown me no problems since.”
Claudia and I were on our way to dottoressa Fritz. The last appointment was March 5, then because her studio lay outside the comune of Orvieto – and because Claudia couldn’t have even picked me up for similar reasons – nothing until mid-May. Then the dottoressa’s back problems kicked in, and forced postponement of two subsequent visits. Friday’s painful calf was not about to prevent our trying again. She switched treatments from my nervous system to my left leg.
Minutes after returning home, Renzo and Patrizia appeared with a rice salad, stuffed zucchini, and a generous slice of Renzo’s crostata. Maria soon followed with groceries and pharmaceuticals. Elia (known during the lockdown as the smoker with a sweet smile) checked in to see that his cleaning of my house’s outdoor areas was adequate, and if I needed anything more. Giancarlo, my neighbor in the opposite direction, made sure that he understood how to gel and wrap the calf, then promised to return in the morning to help. Meals were offered and provided on Saturday by Renzo and Patrizia, then when they left on Sunday for a week’s vacation, they passed the wooden spoon to Giancarlo who brought me food enough to last several days.
I was neither able, nor compelled, to leave the property for the weekend. It was like a personal lockdown.
But the lack of walking made me jittery and dispirited. For all the kindness offered and done, I felt dry inside; deeply appreciative, but disconnected. Without the communal purpose of a lockdown, being stuck at home is just being stuck at home.
Monday morning, American friends Bobbie and Peter came over to install the control mechanism for the drip system I’d installed three years ago. Elia was willing to water from time to time, but I worried for the hydrangeas, so wanted to back up with evening drips. It was lovely of them to help, I thoroughly enjoyed their company, but as soon as they left I returned to my funk. I tried a few vain circumambulations of the courtyard. Too painful. Too risky. I iced the leg for a second time, and dozed.
All afternoon I wanted to jump out of my skin. This was boring. Walking holds my body in balance; it also is wonderful entertainment. I sulked.
Then in a hour’s time I suddenly had appointments for physiotherapist, shiatsu, medical doctor, real estate agent, and dentist lined up for the rest of the week. This would need some cash. Cash required a trip to the bancomat. That required walking. So, with the heat of the day waning, I set off on Renzo’s crutches.
I felt ridiculous at first, like I was playing a hackneyed role badly. But the air on the street was breezy and felt good. Young people drifted by, none of them even with canes, let alone crutches. Their healthy appearances were more welcome and appreciated than usual.
Bianca, whose face naturally assumes a smile no matter what she’s feeling, furled her brow and asked what was happening.
“Left calf is hurting, and I’m not used to crutches.”
“Don’t get used to them, and be careful.”
Francesca, my tax advisor in Italy drifted uphill with her adorable black poodle.
“Are you acting or is this serious?”
“Good question. Cute dog.”
The male half of the human couple that belong to the elegant dog named Bea, passed as I was returning home, loaded up with euro.
“No, use them like this. Left crutch forward, left foot forward, right crutch forward, right foot forward. It’s a dance. Con calma, piano piano.”
I tried, failed, tried again, failed again. Bea looked on, puzzled as to why we weren’t interacting.
“Keep it up, it will feel natural in a few minutes.”
I did. It didn’t. As I turned the corner home, I carried the crutches the last few meters. My mood was lifted, my left calf more supple, and my body more agile. For me, walking is an elixir. I dread the days without it, and there may be several. But my friends and neighbors behave as if there were nothing in the world more important than taking care of one another. They may be right.