The Hazards of Cleaning

I have been laid up by an injury. Of all the dangerous things I do on the farm—chainsawing, sawmilling, chopping wood, working with cattle, goats, and sheep, lifting rocks I shouldn’t be lifting, etc., I managed to injure myself at my Aunt and Uncle’s house while vacuuming. I stepped on a sewing needle that was stuck in the carpet, and about an inch of it broke off inside the ball of my foot. I couldn’t see any needle showing, though, so for three days I limped around not knowing if there was a piece of needle in my foot or if it had just gotten badly jabbed.

So now, having been x-rayed, sliced open, needle removed, and sewed back up again, I am in bed surrounded by books, knitting, movies, my ukulele, and small middens of orange peels and mugs and plates from the meals the Cantankerous Farmer has brought me. Yesterday, the first day after surgery, all I did was take pain meds, doze, watch movies, and try not to think about my foot, which felt like someone was holding a hot poker against it relentlessly.

One Week Later…

I am now able to hobble around with the help of a black velcro walking-cast-boot, lurching like a pirate with a peg-leg that is two inches too long. For those of you who have ever downhill skied, it is like walking with only one ski boot on—very awkward. My foot is healing up well, but, the foot surgeon informed me, the skin of the sole of the foot is the slowest on the body to heal, and I am confined to the boot until January 5^th. Until then, I am unable to help with any outside work, and I know I’m not the only one frustrated by this.

The Cantankerous Farmer does the chores for his Grandparents morning and evening, he works on building our house in between, and now also has to take over household duties and the care of our four goats, two of which are close to parturition. As the pain in my foot has gone down, I’ve been able to do some of the cooking and the dishes, but he still has way too much on his plate. The C.F. quote of the week is this, murmured almost every dawn before prying himself out of bed: “Are you sure you don’t want to do the chores this morning? You’re so good at milking goats…”

“I only wish I could,” I reply.