Since breaking my leg back in March, I’ve been to Doctor McCrainey’s office four times.
The good doctor works with the Capitol Orthropedic Center, tucked away on the third floor of the West Tower of the St. Dominic Hospital medical plaza. Even on sunny days, good parking is difficult to find here; today, with rain coming down so hard it pits the sidewalk, every single space is filled.
I wind up parking in the underground lot, near the East Tower elevators. I’ve parked here twice before; each time, I’ve had to make my way — on crutches! — several hundred yards to the West Tower elevators, up to the third floor, and then down the long corridor to the doctor’s office.
When I pull into the parking space — the same one I occupied last time, as a matter of fact — I feel an unexpected sense of dread well up inside me. Just the thought of fumbling with my crutches, dragging myself to the elevators, and working my way along the corridor exhausts me.
And then, it hits me: I’m not on crutches anymore. In fact, apart from some occasional early-morning stiffness, I’m right as rain.
The stroll to the elevators takes just seconds. The ride up the elevator is quick and painless. The corridor shows no sign of having been rebuilt … but the doctor’s office door seems about sixty yards closer to the elevator bay.
Without even thinking about it, I had associated being at the doctor’s office with being on crutches … and all the effort and exhaustion associated with that state of being. The association was so strong, in fact, it came back, full-force, long after my crutches have been cast aside.
The doctor doesn’t even bother to x-ray me. “Walk for me. Walk on your tip-toes. Walk on your heels. You’re clearly fine.” he hands me a folder. “Looks like this whole business is officially over.”
On the walk back to the car, I barely touch the floor.
Add comment