This has been a difficult week for me, for a variety of
reasons. The hardest part about this week is learning that I have to go back
into physical therapy for my hip. I really don’t know why I’m as upset about
this as I am—I’ve seen this coming. I’ve been in pain for three weeks, pain
that mirrors (and in some ways is worse than) my pre-surgery pain. It was
either this or some other medical test/procedure/etc. But it’s still upsetting.
It’s upsetting because it feels like a step, make that five months of steps,
backwards. It’s upsetting because the doctors don’t know what’s causing this
and can’t hand me some magical pill or exercise or stretch to fix this. This is
medicine by trial-and-error, something that has become the story of my life for
a while. I feel like I’ve been robbed…Just when I thought I was “better,” just
when I was getting back into my normal routine and thinking of doing things I
haven’t been able to do for a while (e.g. play soccer), I regress and am back
at what feels like square one. Hopefully this isn’t the case. Hopefully this is
just (just—ha!) a matter of
strengthening a muscle or two and getting back on my merry way. Hopefully…
In light of this week’s events, I decided to post
something I posted on Facebook in the midst of my immediate surgery recovery.
Like repeating to yourself over and over “I love (insert what you’re trying to convince yourself you love),” I hope
that by reposting this I’ll remind myself that while this seems big and
depressing, I could be a lot worse off. I hope that by reposting this, I’ll
give myself the kick in the butt I need to stop wallowing and gain some
perspective. So without further ado…
Perspective
The last memory I have of my grandfather, Tata, is of him
singing me a song. I was seven at the time, in second grade, and I had the
great misfortune of having lost both my top and bottom two front teeth at the
same time. It made for a very cute school picture (one of my favorite pictures
of myself), and it apparently also made for a good mocking. That Christmas,
Tata “tortured” me by singing “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth”
over and over, mimicking the lisp that I had affected due to the large, gaping
hole in my mouth.
As I sit here, three-and-a-half-weeks after having hip
surgery, I can’t help recalling the image of my stout, Guayabera-clad tata
ribbing me with that song. If he were still alive today, I’d have him singing
“All I Want for Christmas is a Hip That Works” every chance he got. This
surgery is supposed to help several health issues I’ve been experiencing, but
it’s hard to keep that in mind sometimes: when my leg feels like a foreign
object rather than a part of my body, as I’m gritting my teeth through physical
therapy exercises, when I can’t find a comfortable sleeping position to save my
life, when I’m corralling dinner ingredients in one spot so I don’t have to
crutch all over the kitchen, when I’m crying and yelling as The Husband rubs my
scar tissue, as I’m wincing at the to-do list I’m compiling for The Husband
because I can do squadoosh for myself…Surgery is not a walk in the park, and
there are several times when I’ve questioned my sanity for agreeing to it.
But then I hear about somebody like The Husband’s former
boss, who just found out he has a tumor in his spine. To get to it, the doctors
will have to crack open his spinal column, possibly paralyzing him. But if they
don’t try to take the tumor out, he’ll end up paralyzed and die anyways. Sounds
like a good case of damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t.* Suddenly, my
surgery and recovery look like a walk in the park on a sunny spring day, an ice
cream cone in each hand.
Which is why I say, “Oh Perspective, how I hate thee!” It’s
much easier to cry into my Dairy Queen blizzard than it is consider that my
situation isn’t as bad as the alligator tears rolling down my cheeks would lead
me to believe. But every time I try to pick up my spoon and take a bite, that
little voice in the back of my head nags me (Insert apology to The Husband, who
gets the joy of actually hearing that obnoxious voice.) about how much worse
off things could be. Thanks, God, thanks a bundle. But that’s one of God’s
jobs—to provide me with perspective. And as frustrating as perspective is
sometimes, it keeps me and my selfish self in check. Yes, things are painful
and hard and complicated. But I’ve also got a lot of things going for me: a
husband who should be nominated for sainthood (or at least beatification),
family and friends who’ve encouraged me, an employer who’s worked around my
limitations, strangers who have offered help and prayers, and cute cats who
keep me company in my prison cell, I mean bed. There are people out there a lot
worse off than I am, people who are praying for something as “simple” as hip
surgery.
So as much as I’d love to wallow, I really shouldn’t. I
have three to five more months of this, and then hopefully I’ll be back to
living without pain, playing soccer, and doing other things that this labral
tear has prevented me from doing. I just need to buck up, grit my teeth, and
finish strong. To quote my senior year high school soccer coach, “Balls out.”
* The tumor was removed, the cancer was not malignant, and the co-worker is healthy and back at work.
