Finally, finally, I have hit 6 weeks post op.

The sun has been shining, and I have been watching it through the window, longing to feel its warmth. I am chronically Vitamin D deficient, so my needs are, well, pretty damn similar to a reptile. I am always cold and moody, so I need to be warmed by the sun to enable me to come back to life and some vestige of cheerfulness.

My consultant was pleased with the state of healing visible when the foot was x-rayed and decreed that no surgery boot was required anymore. Thank God, because I was starting to feel like I was limping, fighting the urge to put my foot down properly.

No more dressings required either, so fully submerged bath is the order of the day. Take it from me, baths with one leg hanging out the side are bloody tricky and not at all comfortable or relaxing. I essentially had to let myself fall in on my right side (my left foot was operated on).

There is a fair bit of residual swelling in the soft tissue of the big toe, which could take months to go down. So my toe in itself is still pretty fat and swollen. In fact, just now, I’d argue the foot isn’t any less wide than it was when I had a severe bunion. But at least this has a high chance of changing in the future.

I left the frame the nursing staff gave me there that day in my own two shoes. I cannot seem to help trying to go forward through my toes as I have always done. The sharp resistance of the now rigid toe is becoming a great motivator for moving slower and “properly”: heel to toe.

There is no metarsal in my big toe now, just the titanium plates and pins; the latter of which you have feel the outline of if you prod the swelling of the toe, it’s very odd!

But, for me at least, not as odd as having to learn to walk heel to toe. I assume that most able bodied people do this instinctively. Though my beautician did make me stop and think when she said: “I don’t think it’s instinctive for everyone you know.” A fair point, well made I feel. It genuinely hadn’t occurred to me, but I guess we only know what we know.

And let me tell you, it is hard. I keep catching myself because that pain reminds me. I keep muttering “Heel!” to myself, even on the way to the bathroom. Because it’s just not natural to me. But I can say it’s definitely more comfortable. What a revealation! I just hope I will master the habit, though I have checked whether I will damage any of my new hardware if I do revert to toe first. Apparently (thankfully!) this is entirely unlikely. But I am determined to avoid a return to anything close to my previous pain so I am optimistic.

My balance on a healing foot that is trying to learn entirely new (to me) ways of walking is, to put it mildly, precarious. I am moving around with a mix of shuffling, limping and lurching from one steady object to another. It is awkward but functional.

In this lovely week of sunshine, I have finally walked outside. I have been out 6 times in the 6 weeks since my operation; twice for hospital appointments, once to the pub and twice on coffee runs where I didn’t even leave the car. Yesterday I went out to restore myself, coveriing the 0.3 miles from my first massage in 6 weeks to my first hair appointment in almost 3 months! 3 of those outings were this week alone so I have been pretty isolated, trying to build confidence in the safe space of home.

Now for the joy of this whole endeavour, which I share for the joy of it and because it might help someone else feel brave enough to accept a big toe fusion in their life.

The tug of pain in my toe is literally just in my toe and only while I’m walking. Once I stop, the pain dissipates, like immediately. I am not used to this at all. I am used to pain radiating through my foot and toe and building throughout the day until I am in tears of agony.

Comparitively, I cannot comprehend the levels of pain I have dealt with for so long. I feel so sad. Life could have been so much better. The tugs of pain now are nothing in comparison, more a dull ache, just for a moment or two. And if, God forbid, I have to live with this level of pain for the rest of my days, then I will do it with a smile on my face, because my God, what I endured before in comparison was hell. I honestly can’t believe I thought it was normal, just something to be survived as a consequence of cerebral palsy. I say this loud and clear for all to hear: To Hell with that. We all deserve to live our best life.

And so, to facilitate this alongside the need to rewire my brain after 36 years to alter my way of walking (easy as that, eh?) I am back using a walker.

I have a very complicated relationship with walking aids. They absolutely have their purpose. I suspect my feelings are tangled up in the overhang of a 90s childhood. At least in mine, walking aids were a symbol of difference, of weakness and reasons “you can’t….”. I congratulate all parents of disabled children who did not raise them in your fear. For those, like my parents, who inadvertently did, I do not judge. I empathise. But for those children, I see you. You can.

Practicing what I preach, wanting to recover strong, I have decided to support myself in all the ways I can. So I bought a walker. With a seat, because God knows, I’m going to get tired with all this heel-to-toe’ing. Someone said to me this week that the brain uses 95% of its capacity during recovery. That spoke to me. It explains why it has been so tiring, physically and emotionally. It proves that my brain and I are on the same page. We want to get to living. For once, on the same team. This is a good place.

My walker is purple. I love purple. It’s not medical style burgundy or NHS blue. It’s mine. I am debating covering it in stickers from musical theatre. To make it something beyond a lump of metal that I will have to rely on for a while undetermined.

I don’t know why I have always been so determined to separate myself from these aids. I think it’s because I’ve wanted to show that I can, alone, for as long as I can. But needing help is not the weakness I learnt internally it was. In fact, seeking help shows strength, which is what a life best lived needs plenty of. I think of friends I know that use mobility aids; wheelchairs, walkers, whatever. They have never been “my friend in the wheelchair”. To me, for them, whatever they use to help them day to day is just there, simply because it needs to be. It’s not an extension of them, it doesn’t bring forth any statements of judgement on their character or independence. And if it (rightfully) doesn’t for them, then why should it for me?

Of course it shouldn’t. On with the good life!

(Fingers crossed for a sunny Bank Holiday!)