*post learning how to walk and climb/descend stairs on crutches, the PT wheeled me back to the recovery room*
Nurse: Welcome back. You’re all set with the crutches?
Me: As all set as I’ll ever be.
Nurse: So glad to hear it.
Me: I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready for those 50 stairs up and into my apartment.
Nurse: I cannot stop thinking about that. I’m going to worry about this for the rest of the day.
Me: Me too.
Nurse: Maybe you could find some cute, strong looking guy on the street and have him carry you up.
Me: Or I could call the fire department.
Nurse: They’d definitely help you.
Me: And here I’d been trying to use a dating app. All I needed to do was get foot surgery and have millions of stairs to climb.
Nurse: It’s a unique strategy all right.
The pain meds were wearing off, but the effects of the anesthesia lingered, and the anxiety piled on as my brain remained hazy, fuzzy, and overloaded. From the vantage point of the wheelchair, I contemplated my future. Which included crutches and a desperate need for a sense of humor.