Airstreams Are Not Crutch-Compatible

I’ve been using crutches for less than a week now, so I hardly have room to complain. I’d like to; I surely feel like complaining.  But seeing as how so many people I know have endured knee injuries, the only legit angle I have for whining is the pain in the ass that is living in a travel trailer with crutches.  

So, sit back, because I’ve categorized my complaints in this department.  And some are surprises.

My First Shocker

I can’t flush the toilet. 

Maybe you’re not familiar with the fact that many RV toilet models flush with a foot pedal, since there’s no tank of water to release with a handle, only a spray into the bowl from the fresh water pipe running under the floor. I’ve mastered doing this with the end of one crutch, but only after several practice runs. 

First step is getting two crutches into the bathroom in the first place, one to lean on so I can use the other as a poker. And that bathroom is barely large enough for me, much less me and two tall sticks that get tangled in towels and the mop and broom, plus the tiny trash can I’d thought had been out of the way.  Suddenly you’re like a horde of clowns jammed into a phone booth all trying to get out at once.  With crutches. 

Other places the crutches are in the way: all places.  

I’m serious! There is not one spot in this trailer where I can put the crutches so they’re not blocking something crucial.  

Beside the sofa where I can reach them, they’re blocking the sink.  

At the end of the sofa, they’re blocking the door.  When I’m navigating the bathroom or trying to sit at the table, they’re blocking the fridge.  

Sometimes I leave them across the back of the sofa, but that’s on top of all my stuff now stationed there within easy reach of reclining me. 

My solution so far is to prop them up on top of the sofa, leaning against the outer wall, but with the risk of bumping them and creating a possible kitchen disaster.  

More Shockers

Our bedroom is much too small for crutches.  

So, the sofa is where I live now, morning noon and night.

We have three dog beds, and all three are in my way.   

Once one thing is in the wrong place, chaos descends in about three minutes.  

So, my step stool that I normally use as a short-person aid under the table is now in front of the cabinet that our pots and pans are in.  Move that to get a pot, and you can’t get the cabinet open to throw something in the trash can.  Put the full trash bag by the door to take out later, and it gets kicked over.  Need to sweep the floor, and the broom is awry in the bathroom due to recent clown activity.  Chaos happens faster than you can imagine. 

I straighten the whole time I’m inside; Tracy is unawares.

(Directly related to above.) These photos give a weak impression of how much stuff gathers in the trailer when I’m not putting things away.  And I’m not gonna ask Tracy to clean up.  With me immobile, he’s walking Banjo 4 x/day, cooking her chicken and rice because she ate something dreadful, running to Walmart to get me implements of knee healing, cooking all our meals, dumping the waste tanks, and working on his Alaska-recovery hardware projects.  I’m going to accept mess. 

Outside is a luxury.

Again, it’s those treacherous three steps that I don’t dare go down without Tracy lifting me.  This is how bad it is: Yesterday he was away and I was in the trailer with the door open.  It started raining.  I’m looking at the rain coming through the screen, looking at the door latched open on the outside of the trailer, and realizing I have a problem.

Before, I’ve hung onto the doorsill and swung myself out to unlatch the door and pulled it shut, but my days of daredevils moves are on hold.  All I could do was watch the rain come in. 

Yes, crutches are not Airstream-compatible.  But, today I’m going to try sitting in the tent where I hope to forget about the crutches, the mess, the soreness, the uncertainty.  I’m going to be on a warm, winter vacation as I was meant to be.