Sylvia's Journal

I am now walking around without crutches, or sticks as the Afghans say, a literal translation from Dari where crutches are called ‘sticks of wood,’ which is what they usually are, if that.

In the morning when I get up my ankle feels great. I can even walk without my orthopedic boot on, nearly normal two-legged again. But by the time I come home from a day of facilitation my ankle is sore. My improvised icing device is a small bottle of water that I put in the freezer in the morning and bind around my ankle when I come home.

The nerves are still in disarray – touching some part of my ankle produces small electric shocks while other parts remain without sensation. I am beginning to suspect that some of the three deck screws damaged the nervous system – hopefully not permanently but I know that nerve damage heals very slowly, if at all. For now both of my feet have compromised nerves – a daily reminder of the crash.

At night I prop my foot up on a pillow next to the ice bottle and that is how I fall asleep. The sore ankle urges me to go to bed early, sometimes as early as 7:30 PM. This means I am making very long nights, 9 hours sometimes. I follow my body’s instructions, assuming it knows best.

At the guesthouse the cast of characters changes nearly daily – some Johns Hopkins professors arrived to teach hospital administrators while our TB team is on its way out; the DHS reconnoitering team will leave after the weekend and a batch of pharmacists will take their rooms. I am the constant, at least for another week when my 5 weeks are up. A week from now I should be making my way to Dubai, incha’allah.