Day 7: Ice Ice Baby
I’m cautiously optimistic about returning to normal life. Pain has been less than 5 on a scale of 1-10 for a couple of days and, with the incredible support (read: stern watchfulness) of my hubby Mike, I’ve managed to avoid activities that might re-trigger the unbearable spasms of earlier in the week.
It’s been PT-bed-ice-pool-nap-PT-bed-ice-pool-nap and I’m so grateful and lucky to have had Mike, my mom, and others willing to help me keep that routine and get better this week.
Thing is, I’m not all the way better. I’m just better enough to be dangerous. The physical therapist basically put it this way: I can continue to be super-diligent and avoid activities that aggravate the situation, continue to work the exercises he’s given me and get plenty of ice time and rest time, and get better as quickly as possible. Or I can, now that I’m kind of out of crisis crisis mode, push through, go back to doing all my normal stuff, and re-aggravate it all one laundry load at a time, one rigatoni serving at a time, and stay in this hurty, grouchy, tolerable but far from pleasurable pain place for a good, long while.
Ax and Mike were with me at the appointment when these choices were laid out and Ax remarked that the first choice sounded better.
It will take a mental leap to make the choice to get help so I can get all the way better. It feels a little self-indulgent, decadent, selfish to say, “Hey friend, can you bring Ax home after school so I don’t have to get in and out of the car and sit in the car all that time?” I mean, I could do it if I had to do it. But I don’t have to do it. I can ask for help and have some faith that the person I’m asking will say no if it’s really inconvenient for them. I can postpone, reschedule, and rearrange everything to take better care of myself and feel grateful, not guilty, that the fate of the world is not resting on my ability to load the dishwasher or pay bills this week.
I can tell myself that it’s not only okay but it’s awesome for me to take the time I need, really need, to get better, rather than only the amount of time I think I should need or want to need, to get better. I’ve done that being stingy with myself thing and it hasn’t given me the life I wanted or needed. It didn’t make me a better mom or wife or sister or daughter or friend or community member or anything. It made me sad, angry, depressed, resentful, and hurt. It made me want to hide.
There were less dirty dishes in the sink, that’s true, but net-net, for me, overriding my actual needs in exchange for clean dishes is not a deal I‘m willing to make anymore. I’m gonna keep going.
