People tell me I'm brave, I hear the "hero" word, the "strong, tough, can-do" words. Besides a positive attitude and the recurring thought that my neurosurgeon had better be right in his optimism, I don't know that it's about brave or strong. I think it's about coping and playing with the hand you were dealt.
That's not to say it's easy. I struggle to remind myself that I shouldn't be able to do everything yet. That the goal of traumatic injury is to recover slowly, that this surgery was TRAUMATIC and is putting incredible stress on my body. I struggle to remember that napping every hour is okay. To remember that the simple act of walking (and honestly, to call it "walking" is such an exaggeration) 30 feet with all that help, is not simple, and it's exhausting, and that's okay. To remember that having a shower is a super-big deal to be acheived and celebrated.
I guess it's even okay to have down days where everything and everyone sucks. And there are times when they SUCK !! Not just lower case suck, but big fat upper case, bold, italic suck. I guess it's a good thing that I want to walk more than I want to focus on everything that has gone wrong. There is lots of frustration with the baby steps. Remembering that more doesn't mean better, that faster doesn't mean better, that working harder doesn't mean working smarter. I have come a long way in allowing myself to believe in the instructions of the professionals. As long as they think there's progress, then I shoud be good, right?. I've fallen off and crawled back up on the fitness wagon more times than I can count. And I can do it again. This won't be any different. I just have to listen and do it their way. (oh, I can hear the laughter from those who know me, who've been telling me for years to chill, and to be less controlled and independent and to ask for help.)
I'm trying hard to realize that it's not all about me. That the people out there who care about me are affected too. The look on my son's face when he watched his mom be moved from the chair to the bed by two physiotherapists because my legs won't hold me (or maybe it was the sight of my butt flashing at him that freaked him out .. not sure). The laughter from him when my right leg was spazzing and flailing and kicking until I concentrated on controlling it. (I can do that trick all day). But I still won't let my father watch any of the attempts at walking - sometimes you do have to protect those you love from unnecessary memories. He can watch it on video six months from now when I'm running up and down the stairs again.
We never get our own last laugh .... and that's something to just accept. People tell me I'm a control freak. I'm not, I think I'm actually quite relaxed, but I've seen enough episodes of Hoarders to know that most people deny their basic tendencies. So maybe I'm not so relaxed. This week has been a HUGE effort in letting go. There are things I can't do. I just can't. I start to try, have to concede, then ask for help.
Mother Nature has a wicked sense of humour.
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