It was a big day. It was time for my trip to the bone/foot doctor who would, I hoped, remove the bulky cast from my foot/leg. He would take away my scooter and set me free.
I could get back to life at a somewhat normal level. I could roam around the house, go up and down stairs, put on shoes, maybe do a little shopping.
I would be free to go to the grocery store, do laundry, clean the litter box, feed the cats, furminate them in spite of their reluctance. I could cook lunch and dinner again.
I would no longer be forced to take daily, seemingly endless, two-hour siestas with the foot plugged into its electromagnetic bone-maker.
I could get back to the business of changing sheets and making the making the beds. I could run the sweeper. Go outside in the rain to get the newspaper. Wash dishes. Water plants. Recycle garbage.
I could hardly wait for the verdict. The doctor looked at the X-rays and, with a sad look on his face, said that he really thought I would benefit from another 3 weeks with the cast/scooter.
I tried hard not to smile but I don’t think I succeeded.