It took being in a wheelchair to learn how to ask for help
I still don’t wish a lack of access on anybody
It is a beautiful September morning, the year is 2021, and I’m crawling to the intercom in my florentine apartment to let the paramedics in. In my delirium I couldn’t remember my own name or where my IDs were when they asked. I speak six languages and couldn’t find words in any of them. All I remember is that all my life force had rushed into my feet and they were so heavy I couldn’t stand. Next thing I knew I was on a stretcher, being held by a resident doctor while choking back tears at the sight of the X-ray.
“Frattura,” he awkwardly paused, pointing at the fracture.
“Ma e’ piccola, non preoccuparti.” But it’s small, don’t worry.
As I would only learn months later, I had broken my foot in three places, at varying degrees of depth, and my worst-case scenario was immediate surgery in that moment. But they told me I was fortunate enough to just get a subcutaneous injection everyday for a month and a half and wear a cast, instead. We won’t get into how that injection could’ve been a pill, or that the cast should’ve been physiotherapy and a hard boot.
At this time I only speak rudimentary Italian and am completely reliant on the kindness of strangers. A stranger wheels…
