Two weeks ago, I broke my left kneecap. Right after it happened, I refused to acknowledge the pain, the promise of a longer recovery than an afternoon propped up in bed reading, because how could I be confined so completely, restricted so unkindly? I had life to live and plans that week and everyday my household, my husband, my son, my friends, my family needed me.
But I’d done it. It was broken and nothing would change that.
Anger lit me up inside. I stewed over my sudden and complete inability to function as I had grown used to functioning. And the frustrating thing was, I didn’t even know who to blame, but I wanted to blame something, someone. I wanted to blame myself for not wiping my feet on the doormat before I stepped on wet tile with wet shoes. I wanted to blame the circumstance for presenting itself. I wanted to blame the chaos going on in my life for distracting me enough to misstep.
I wanted to heal fast. Sure, the Doctor said it should take four weeks, but I wanted to take two. I wanted to bend my knee. I wanted to speed this up. I’d had enough rest. I didn’t want to watch TV or sit and stare out the window with tears in my eyes. Those romantic images from movies where the girl languishes in a wheelchair in the garden, embroidered afghan over her legs, convalescing with a cup of tea: not my idea of a well-spent afternoon.
I didn’t want to be confined to the downstairs guest room of my house, or the back porch in a wheelchair. To be swollen and bruised, in pain with nothing to do but feel it. I wanted to get up and walk. To clean the kitchen and make myself a snack. To run errands. To walk the dogs. Basic things I usually never even paid attention to, I longed for the freedom to do them. For the right to grumble about them.
It has been days of scrabbling on the tips of fingers up the side of a deep dark hole of feelings. Thoughts my normal speed allows me to ignore. Questions I prefer not to seek an answer to.
But this confinement did have an expiration date. Four weeks. And the fact that I was still spiraling, not coping great, stuck inside me like a thorn. I have friends that exist on the razor edge of chronic pain. They live with disabilities well beyond my comprehension, they triumph and create, all with a daily battle that has no end in sight. What right did I have to complain? How dare I? This is not the way a brave girl responds. This feels like crumbling. Tipping over a ledge I didn’t realize had gotten so close.
If honesty is still a virtue, here is another nugget:
Being forced into a narrow boundary casts everything outside that boundary into a harsh and brutal light.
In the end, these were the things that survived the bright light.
My husband is a glorious knight of raven headed kindness. My son is a true and solid friend, with the ability to cope and comfort well beyond his seven-years.
Writing and reading create a life-raft.
The people that truly love you emerge in the midst of crisis.
Grace is a gift we are given, but it is also one we must extend even when we are thoroughly pissed off.
Don’t be afraid to go dark for a while. That may be the only way to chart your course.
Two weeks down. Hump-day for the broken-boned. Today I feel better, but not mended. I feel more hopeful, but not sure what that actually means. Not sure, at all, what the other side of this will feel like.
Sure, only, that it can’t belike it was before.