Today, I left the house for the first time since my surgery over a week ago. I drove myself to my post op appointment and felt so good restoring a bit of my freedom. But then, when I looked for my temporary handicap parking placard, I couldn’t find it. I didn’t sweat it but parked at the nearest spot in the orthopedic building lot which was three rows away from the front door. I figured it must be in the other car—or maybe my husband knew where it was. It was a big hike for me, one step at a time with a walker, step by step and took more than ten minutes getting inside the building. I looked at all the rows of handicapped parking and realized they were all full anyway. There’s a run on handicapped parking at the Desert Orthopedic Center. I haven’t gotten a handicapped spot yet during my last few month’s visits.
The appointment went well. The doctor is kind, gave me color photos of the inside of my knee and said I’m doing great. That was all good news. I can start back to PT next week and can put a little weight on my leg.
But then, things got ugly after my appointment when I walked back to my car. Step by tiny step with the walker, stopping to catch my breath, I worked my way through the lot. There’s a crosswalk that divides through the islands with enough room for wheelchairs or people like me, struggling with walkers to get the shortest route from my car to the front door.
Except for the jerk in the brand new silver Corvette, who took it upon himself to park in what was NOT a spot! He left his car in the divide that was the handicapped CROSSWALK. Once I got there looking at my car–two rows away–I tried to inch by his fancy, shiny car. But, no! His car prevented me from using my walker. He took up more than a foot of the room I needed to get by. I tried using my walker with the right two legs up over the curb in the planter and the left two legs on the blacktop.
I had to backtrack, go an extra 50 yards around the parking area, to get back to where I would have been if I had taken the crosswalk. I was furious. After me, I watched a sweet little old lady swear, and a mom with an infant and stroller and a hubby on a knee scooter with a shattered foot curse out loud. Thanks, mister hotshot with the Corvette!
The mom with the stroller and infant said, “What an asshole!”
I said, “I know! I had to walk clear around,” and pointed out my circuitous route.
Her husband said, “What? A guy driving a Corvette is an asshole? Who knew?”
We all cracked up at that.
But then, back home I got a little more upset, after my husband and I discovered the temporary handicapped placard is nowhere in either of our cars. The last time I saw it was the day before surgery when we went out for brunch at one of our favorite restaurants. We had valet parked. That was the last time we used the placard and the only time I was in a car–prior surgery. Don’t get me started!
One thing that being injured has taught me is to be more considerate of people with injuries, disabilities and the elderly —those who need those handicapped placards, crosswalks and parking spots.