I wasn't thinking like this the past couple of days though. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of spending any time with me while I am sick or injured knows that it takes me some time to accept the fact that I am sick or injured. I absolutely abhor the thought of having to ask for help. It is embarrassing to me, someone who prides herself in "being able to do everything on her own, without any of your damn help", to have to bite the bullet and admit that I cannot make my own morning coffee, do my own laundry, go to the store, or bathe myself. (Although I did attempt bathing yesterday, and it didn't end in tears. It didn't end in clean hair either.) I am extremely grateful for all of the concerned callers, friends who dropped in (especially Cookeroo, B-Rock and the fabulous Mr. Head) to bring me cigarettes, books and the like. However, at the same time, my brain couldn't get off the fact that I just want to be able to do this all by myself. But, my body won out over my brain, and after a fall in the kitchen, spilling hot tea all over my torso, tripping over the cats a thousand times and realizing there is no frickin' way I can go anywhere independantly without shovelling all the snow that surrounds my car, I calmed down, started reading my second book of the week, and just accepted the fact, that whether I like it or not, I have an injured leg, and I have got to look after it.
I awoke this morning, my leg throbbing much less than it had been the past couple mornings. I hobbled about with my crutches for a few minutes, and then decided that I had had enough of no coffee in the mornings, and got to work. It has only been a couple of years since I first smashed my leg up, and I was on crutches for a much longer period of time, and I was able to go about my day, and do things around the house for myself. I just had to sit and think. How exactly did I carry objects? What was that technique I had when I needed to stand for longer periods of time, and my crutches were in the way? The harder I thought, the more everything came back to me, and I was on my way to having a regular day.
After I had drank some coffee, had a less than stellar bowel movement (damn you Tylenol 3!), and fed the cats, I got up the courage to put the crutches down. I hobbled slowly to my bedroom, and back to the kitchen to get more coffee, walking on tip toe, not wanting to break anything. "Wait, I'm not broken anymore, I am just sore", I thought to myself, and shuffled with a bit more confidance. V-Man told me it looked like there was a dancer in the house.
So yes, today is my day. If I can alternate crutches, cane and no ambulatory aids at all for the next few days, when the staples come out, I will hopefully be good as new. Sure, I won't be dancing my pants off on Saturday nights for awhile, and my Olympic training will have to wait, but I'll be OK.
Thank you Mr. Head, for urging me to get this surgery done. All of this is definatly worth it.
I take no responsibility for spelling and grammar mistakes, and if this doesn't make any sense at all. Blame the painkillers people, blame the painkillers. :)