Two Invalids

At the beginning of May 2023, I took an unfortunate tumble right outside my front door. I slipped on the step, landed hard, and twisted my ankle so badly that the pain was excruciating. My foot flopped uselessly—it was possibly broken, but I just couldn’t face getting it checked. I somehow crawled back into the house and phoned my husband for help. He rushed home, gently got me into bed, and armed me with an ice pack and pain relief.

The swelling and bruising were intense. I couldn’t walk, not even with crutches. At that point, crawling was my only option. My husband, ever resourceful, sprang into action—lining the floor with yoga mats and rearranging my room so I had everything within reach: a fridge, a microwave, and the basics to survive my days in bed.

What started as a few days of recovery slowly stretched into weeks.

Then, about a month later, something unexpected happened. My husband was driving to visit relatives in Florida when, he saw a little kitten prancing along the freeway amongst the cars. He slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car, determined to help. The terrified little creature climbed up into the engine to escape the traffic and, in doing so, burned most of his tiny feet. My husband burned his own hand trying to free the poor thing from the scorching engine. 

Then, after placing the kitten in the car, the kitten somehow got his head wedged in the dashboard. Needless to say, my husband never made it to see his relatives that day. Instead, he drove straight home—injured kitten onboard—on a mission to get the little guy the care he urgently needed.

A few hours later, I met the tiniest, most pitiful ginger tomcat you could imagine. It had lost the tip of it’s tail and it’s feet were badly burned.  Bandaged and drugged up on painkillers, this fragile little fluffball had already stolen our hearts. We named him Giffy. And after just a day or two of nursing him, we knew: we weren’t giving him up. He was ours.

So there I was, still unable to walk, crawling from my room to the back bedrooms each day to look after Giffy. And there was Giffy—burned, bandaged, and hobbling—learning to trust, learning to heal.

Sometimes, I’d tuck him into a pouch and carry him with me as I crawled along the mats. We’d cuddle in my room, commiserating in silence. Eventually, Giffy healed enough to explore the house, make friends with the other cats, and trot around on his own again.

He was walking long before I was.

But with such a sweet, brave soul to care for, I never once had the chance to feel sorry for myself.

By the end of the year, both Giffy and I had nearly made full recoveries. He still has just half a pad on one of his tiny feet and occasionally walks with a limp. My ankle, too, has its own lasting reminders—clicks, crunches, and all. But life, with all its unexpected beauty and quiet determination, carries on. And so do we—side by side, a little battered, but stronger than ever.