No, this is not a story about owning a dog, this is an essay about recovering from surgery, staying inside, being crippled up, and hobbling around the apartment.  

In early August, I had foot surgery. It is a long story, and not an interesting one, so, just for the record, I will say this:   I had a previous surgery which did not heal properly and so I had to have two pieces of a bone in my foot reconnected.   A simple procedure, to be sure.   It went well.   But, I am not a kid anymore, and the doctor wanted to be sure that things worked out all right, and so he insisted that I stay off my foot completely for a month—and take about six or seven weeks in total for the healing to take place.  

It has been quite an experience.   Many who read this will have undergone similar things, so some of these observations will not come as a surprise to you.   But here are some thoughts, anyway.

I surely could not have done it without friends.   Addie came over nearly every day and read me Latin sonnets—in translation, fortunately, since my Latin is pretty much limited to E Pluribus Unum or Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.   Richard brought me the newspaper every morning and ensured that an untrammeled flow of skim milk was available.   George took me out in his car for lunch one day at a restaurant at the Jersey shore—close enough to the parking lot so that I could hobble in cast and crutches up to the entrance.   Nelson came in and carried out garbage.   Others brought in food.   Jorge came by nearly every day to provide me with company and affection.   Patricia kept me up to date with things going on in the church office, so that I could keep up with my work to some extent.  

Cabin fever is a horrible thing.   One gets cabin fever, interestingly enough, when one is starting to feel a little better.   I began to hate the apartment.   I became annoyed at the cracks and peeling paint on the ceiling in one room.   That torn place on the rug in the living room began to plague me.   I got bored with the food that I could fix for myself.   I missed the gym something fierce and began to feel sluggish and lethargic.   That is probably because I was sluggish and lethargic.  

There is well and truly nothing on television during the day.   Do you know that it is possible to see Murder, She Wrote and Law and Order at almost any hour day or night?   Have you looked at television network news lately?   As gassy and superficial as

Walter Cronkite was, when I was a boy, the new generation makes him look like a senior statesman of analysis and commentary.  

I can see how people get addicted to shopping.   A truly amazing number of catalogues arrive in the mail each day.   No wonder people buy more than they can pay for.   I had to catch myself.   No, I really do not need a new bedspread.   No one really needs a cut glass bottle to put bath oil in.   Really two sets of sheets for a single bed is probably enough.   The last thing I need is another pot to put a plant in—especially because my apartment is the black hole of Calcutta in which nothing ever grows.   Ever.

When I got to feeling a little better and could walk around, I began to do strange things.   No, nothing salacious or fascinating, but strange stuff, anyway.   Desperate for company, when Sam offered to come by and spend a day polishing silver, I accepted eagerly.   It was great.   We got done something I hardly ever do, and had a great time doing it.   I hired Nelson to come over one evening and with my direction, he cleaned out my library, discarded a lot of unused and unwanted books, put a lot of stuff in storage, and hauled out trash. He even cleaned the shelves.  And then he and I divided up the books into categories and put them back on different parts of the shelves.

In a fit of really disgusting organization, I actually alphabetized the fiction books by author.   But just the novels, I soon came to my senses and stopped that.   I found a tiny little brass fitting, which I decided had fallen off a light fixture, and got Nelson to come over, climb up a ladder, and discern from which part of the light the little brass ball had fallen.   I made two binders to put telephone books in. That was probably the end, because doing something as strange as that got my attention and forced me back into some perspective.   But it got weird there for a while, believe you me.

The cast came off yesterday and I am now in a clumsy orthopedic boot.   But for the first time, I can put substantial weight on the foot so I am much more mobile—albeit still with crutches.     That was a real landmark.   I feel like more of a human being and, unless I relapse, I don’t plan to read any more catalogues or find any more tiny pieces of brass hardware.   And the telephone books can just sit around naked.

By the Rev’d Lloyd Prator, Rector
Saint John’s in the Village
Episcopal Church, New York City