Last night I slept badly again–tossed and turned, had weird dreams, woke up with a headache. When I finally stumbled out of bed and used my walker to make my way into the living room this morning and my dad asked how I was, I said not so great. “Still,” I said, “I’m going to have an attitude of gratitude.” Then, since we both speak sarcasm, we laughed, and I ate chocolate cake for breakfast while I propped my injured leg up on the coffee table to help straighten it out. Honestly, this is the most painful thing I do–try to fully straighten or fully bend my knee. And whereas I’m making progress, it’s slight.

A little bit here, a little bit there.

After breakfast I did my first set of rehab exercises for the day, then iced my leg. Then I read, took a nap, ate a snack, and did the exercises/ice thing again. Then I ate dinner, and now I’m blogging while drinking a chocolate shake, which I’m assuming is what my post-operation directions had in mind when they told me to “eat nutritious foods because they help you heal.” After this, it’ll be the exercises/ice thing again, then back to bed for HOPEFULLY a good night’s rest.

Clearly, my days after surgery are revolving around physical therapy and ice packs, and I hate that. I hate that a month ago it was easy to get in and out of bed, in and out of a chair, and in and out of shower, and now I have to think like MacGyver to do any of those things. I hate that everything from getting a Q-Tip to changing my underwear now has to be “thought out.” Last night during The Great Sleep Disaster of 2018, I woke up at four in the morning sweating; my shirt was soaked. Not like I had a fever, but it was definitely damp. Anyway, I got up to change shirts, and despite the fact that my closet is only five feet from the end of my bed, I had to think about things. What am I going to hold on to? What am I going to lean against?

I think it’s the leaning against thing that pisses me off the most. I guess it’d be more accurate to say “that I have the hardest time accepting.” For so long I’ve done everything on my own. Easily flitted from here to there. And now I’m finding myself in countless awkward positions–hopping on one leg, using crutches, grasping for door knobs–just to change a shirt. Byron Katie says that we’re always supported. By life or whatever. Like, if you’re sitting in a chair, the chair’s holding you, and the ground’s holding the chair. And if you trip and fall, well, there’s the ground again, holding you. Most people, of course, would be mad about the trip, but her point (I think) is that in this moment–right here, right now–the trip is over.

From this perspective, I can’t do anything about that dance accident I had four weeks ago. It’s over. But I can recognize that I’m currently in a warm bed and my leg is resting on a pillow. Supported. And I can try–try–to be grateful for my one good leg, for crutches, and for door knobs. For anything I need to lean against.

Since it’s day three after surgery and my directions said I could, this evening (after dinner) I removed the gauze and bandages around my knee. Ugh. There was a lot of dried blood. Also, there were staples, which I wasn’t completely prepared for. You know, sometimes they do things laparoscopically. And whereas there were two such incision points, there were also two “cuts,” one with five staples, and one with twelve. (Prepare yourself, since I’m going to post a picture.) Honestly, I can’t figure out how I feel about these incisions. I mean, I’m grateful that I’ve been repaired, but my knee looks like the side of Frankenstein’s face. I don’t know, I guess it’s the finality of the whole thing. This really happened. I’m going to have a scar.

All things considered, it could be worse. After I took the bandages off, I carefully navigated my way into the bathtub and cleaned up for the first time in four days. Phew, did that feel good. Also, it was exhausting, getting in and out of the tub. Seriously, this is a lot of emotional back and forth–feeling grateful, feeling pissed. But this is life. It’s never just one thing.

Whenever I finish blogging, I’m going to cover my staples with bandages as instructed. However, for now, my view is essentially your view in the picture. 17 shiny staples staring back at me. Earlier today while trying to climb into bed, my left knee gave out–er, faltered–and I fell back into the bed. Now I see why. It’s been though a lot. But this has happened a few times, when all my strength wasn’t there, and I’ve had to catch myself. My point is, there’s always that uncertainty–Am I going to be able to hold myself up? This is something I thought a lot about during the night last night, the applicable metaphors regarding this injury. Because these are some of my greatest fears–Can I walk tall and move confidently forward in the world? Can I support myself?

A few times since starting tonight’s blog, I’ve reached down with my left hand to simply feel my knee. Physically, it’s a little swollen, tender, and–um–leaky. (That’s gross, I know, but this is real life and facts are facts.) When I put my hand on my knee, I can’t help but cry. It’s like I’m putting my hand on the shoulder of a dear friend who feels sad and tired. Oh so tired. Like it’s been though a lot, and not just this last month. At the same time, it feels willing to heal, willing to try again, willing to support me like it has for all these years, despite my never having given it any credit for all its hard work until now. It seems to say, We’ve got this. Be patient. Grasping for door knobs is only temporary. I hope this makes sense. More and more, I really do believe our bodies are trying to communicate with us.

More and more, I’m trying to listen.