Tomorrow we begin the Month of Elul, which is the time that we prepare spiritually and emotionally for the New Year. Elul starting means that Rosh Hashana is exactly a month away. And I know that I want to be in the best possible spiritual place by that time, so I can be in a good place while talking to my Creator and asking Him for a good year.

As a writer, I tend to look back and forth. Back- to see where I’ve come from. And Forth- to see where I’m going. Today I found an old draft that I wrote during the seven months in 2014 when I was laid up in bed in what they called “non-weight-bearing” position!  I find now as I look “back” and “forth” that those thoughts of wanting to  accomplish, improve, and grow – albeit with “baby steps” – are the same today. These are the stories of our lives. Getting better one step at a time. Below is an essay I wrote in my diary during the time that I was recuperating. This post is dedicated to the Hevria group of women writers who are spearheading a project this month on the theme of “love and fear.” My story today reflect that theme, of growing with love and moving in positive ways, despite our fears.

I used to have nightmares about running and running and not getting anywhere. Now I have wonderful dreams about some day jogging, biking, running and dancing. Through baby steps of hard work I have already reached some new and exciting destinations.

I fractured my ankle back in February 2014 while slipping on a sheet of ice in New York, went on to have one surgery which failed to heal my bone, due to a bone infection and other complications followed by two more surgeries. After weeks of healing while wearing a post-surgical splint, cast and boot, I was finally given the go-ahead to stand and walk, a full seven months after the initial fall. It’s been a long journey of many baby steps.

I recall that Thursday when my husband came into our bedroom exactly 8 weeks after the good surgery to watch me get out of bed, swing my legs over the side of the bed, stand up and even walk! The doctor had said I could weight bear and my husband and I were excited to see how it would go.

I stood up easily with no hands. I felt a sharp pain in the heel, but had no problem standing. So far so good. My husband and I held our breaths.

Then I tried to walk. I couldn’t. My feet would just not move. Nothing doing. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why I was unable to do something I had done so easily my entire life. Here I was, 54 years old and unable to take even a tiny step forward with either leg.

My right foot (the injured one) would not lift. Nada. The left foot would probably lift, but I couldn’t do so because that would mean I’d have to stand on the right foot alone. No way. And so, I stood there helpless, unable to walk.

Noting my right calf was completely atrophied, limp and much thinner than the good leg, I understood intellectually why I had no strength or muscle to make any movement with that foot. But still, I was discouraged. I couldn’t really get why my feet wouldn’t lift off the floor. Come on, it shouldn’t be such a big deal, I thought.

After about a day of frustration and dragging myself slowly and laboriously while hunched over a walker, I emailed my doctor to ask him what to expect. He wrote back that it was normal and I should begin physical therapy soon. I also called a few friends who had had broken ankles and they assured me that with physical therapy, time and patience, I’d be walking again. They did it and so would I.

At my first physical therapy session, the head physical therapist wanted a baseline for me.

“Walk,” he said gently.

Lifting still felt impossible. So I tried sliding one foot, then the other foot forward, but I couldn’t. He reached out to hold my hand, but I still couldn’t move forward. And so it went.

For the first 3 sessions of p/t, I asked for ice in between each exercise. My foot was swelling up and as much as they told me it was normal, I felt discouraged. They assured me I’d walk within the next few weeks. I wanted to believe them and so I plugged along. After that first whiny session of pain, ice and discouragement, I returned the next day.

One of the physical therapist aides asked me jokingly if I had survived the previous day’s torture. I told her I was fine and was willing to move forward. Day after day I attended the p/t sessions, doing all the exercises they told me to do.

I took my scooter/knee-rider with me to each session after parking my car (I was able to drive as soon as I could wear regular shoes) and scooting or walking with crutches to the physical therapy center. After one or two days of using the scooter, the p/therapist told me not to bring it anymore, but to use the crutches instead. And so I used the crutches to move from the stationary bike to the calf stretching wall to the balancing sponge to the Pilates table where I practiced my leg raises.

One day after about two weeks of physical therapy, without realizing what I was doing, I left the two crutches leaning against the wall I used to stretch calves, and I just walked.

Just as a baby would take her first steps, with head held high, feet spread apart, and arms stretched to the side I took my first steps alone. I didn’t even realize I was doing so until one of the therapists called out, “hey, Miriam, look at you!”

But unlike a baby, who may fall down when everyone calls attention to the walking, I kept going. This was familiar to me and I was going to do it. Never mind that I hadn’t walked properly for almost 8 months; I was going to walk.

After that, it was more baby steps. From the initial walking with legs spread out, I learned to walk with my feet straight in front of me. I learned and practiced putting one foot in front of the other, and mastering the art of non-wobbling my waist! With head held high, and back straightened, I practiced the art of walking.

At each therapy session, I went from the stationary bike to the calf-stretching station to the balancing sponge to the dorsi-flexion exercises where I learned to alternate lifting my heels and toes. This was hard work, it hurt, but I was determined to reach my goal.

Steps proved difficult for me. In the days when I had been laid up in bed, I slept downstairs in the guest room. I didn’t go upstairs for many months. Even once I was weight bearing and walking, I still was only able to crawl on my knees to get upstairs. Navigating stairs took too much energy and coordination. Crawling upstairs, and scooting down on my backside worked just fine! I wasn’t going to risk another fall.

At the physical therapy, we worked on strengthening my muscles, and building my confidence for doing steps. They step they provided for me was low at first, and gradually they raised it bit by bit. I was given a handlebar to hold on to, and soon I was going up and down, heel to toe, without holding on.

In the real world, this translated into going up steps with holding onto the railing followed by a “look no hands” attitude where I just simply went up the stairs without holding on. Going down was another matter, as I still needed to hold on – first two railings, then one, and finally none.

Curbs were a different story. I had heard and read about too many people who fell walking down curbs, and being slightly paranoid after my experience, I wanted to prevent that. But soon I learned that I couldn’t prevent things. I had to live my life. And so, I took the baby steps from walking up curbs with holding on (to cars, poles, people’s hands, anything in sight), to eventually walking up (and down!) those curbs without any support. What a concept.

May we merit in the coming year to overcome our fears and make progress day by day, with one baby step at a time.

FYI – a song I composed (sung by Arthur Kaufman) “The Great Puzzle”