It's Not Easy Being Green

I want to stand with both feet planted firmly on the ground.

I want to go swimming.

I want to take a bath.

I want to walk unencumbered by walker or crutch.

I want to help out in the garden.

I want to scale the steps to my parents' house and visit their dogs. Copper is depressed and Simone had teeth pulled - she needs someone to tell her that she's beautiful and mean it.

If it's nice out, I want to go outside unsupervised instead of observing the blue sky from my creeper chair in my bathroom.

I really, really, really want to walk! And start physio! And feel better! But I Can't Have What I Want!
I'm super close to weight-bearing: two weeks, barring good X-rays at the surgeon's office. I'm so close but so far out, too; it's an itch that's impossible to scratch; a tantalizing, tortuous wait.

Pretty much 80% of my energy is dedicated to containing all of the above whines inside my head, but I'm not very good at curbing my negative vocalizations. It's not like I'm trying to have a giant pity party for myself, either: this week I've read three books, planned a couple of projects and started a new embroidery piece. All of the busy-work can't mask what my soul longs for: to frolic freely in the backyard. Maybe do a few twirls wearing a full skirt. Hop over the sprinkler, or walk to the corner store to get one of those white and blue and red rocket popsicles.

When voicing my frustrations, I've heard the same sage advice time and again: pretty soon you'll be starting physio and before you know it you'll be walking and back at work! And you're doing so well -  getting stronger and getting off the pain medications! In my bad-person moments I get frustrated with all of the well-intentioned words of encouragement because it's easy to offer advice to a cripple if you can put on your own underwear or tie both of your shoes independently, or if you aren't confronted by a nine and a half inch bright red scar bisecting your torso when you face the mirror. Sometimes I want to stomp my good foot on the ground, pout like there's no tomorrow and yell: You don't know me! Who do you think you are, to tell me to feel better! Just be honest and call me out on being the pathetic, bad attitude sick person that I am! Go ahead, walk away from me on BOTH FEET! You know nothing!

Usually I can prevent a full-scale meltdown and I can stay in a positive, recovery-oriented frame of mind. I can settle in my creeper chair with a tv show and a craft. But then I'll see something that plummets me into a state of self-pity: someone walking, holding a slushie. Our eighty year old neighbor mowing her own lawn. Last weekend was the Calgary Marathon and a little piece of my soul died because I won't be able to run another marathon again.

Two more weeks... and then maybe I can stand with both feet planted firmly to the ground.