This broken ankle thing is not fun. Not in any way shape or form. I AM trying to be good about it. I know that six weeks in a cast is a small amount of time in the scheme of things. However, this six weeks is the basis for the next six months of recovery, apparently, which is WHY I have to be good. Mess up in the early days, and I’ll never run with the wolves. And I did just hear a few horror stories of healing gone wrong.
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So I am having a moment of private grumping, tempered with telling myself it’s not so bad, it could be worse. Now I confess, I don’t usually resort to this kind of thinking, but I heard someone do it once, and wondered if it worked. “It’s not so bad: you still have your foot. Lots of people don’t have a foot. Or a leg. Or a bed. Or food. You could be sick with a terminal illness.”
But I’m not. I’m just injured. A broken bone for Pete’s sake. (Who is Pete?)
Comparisons have always struck me as something slightly unhelpful, unethical and unhealthy. And I never liked that standard English essay question of…compare and contrast. But that’s another blog topic. I decided to try.
So I started thinking of people worse off and read about some which then had me on some deep and dark emotional water slide of thoughts about people in the world that do not have drinking water, that battle malaria and AIDS or leprosy or blindness and lack of food and adequate health care.
For the record, comparing myself with countless people facing medical issues, including the young mother with cycstic fibrosis who is waiting for a lung transplant, did make me feel something.
Gratitude. But don’t think for a minute that it moved GRUMPY out of first place. I’ve got metal holding my ankle together and colours peeping up my left calf and up behind my knee that defy the colour wheel. I need help to get on the funky little chair that sits in the soaker bathtub while I use the hand shower thingy. Oh my gosh, the indignity of THAT! But — the gratitude part: I have a strong right leg, and a strong right butt cheek that can manage with the left leg + butt cheek not bearing any weight. I have help, from wonderful someones. And in know that many, many people do not.
So yes, it is possible to be grumpy AND grateful at the same time.
As for the pain, well, that’s an interesting journey in and of itself. At the hospital over the weekend, when I finally said ok to pain medication, I was given a narcotic drip. Going home, I was given a prescription for a handful of the pain medication percocet — the most addictive drug on the planet, oxycodon, and I had enough for the first four days home from the hospital. I felt very, very strange. Like my head wasn’t where it normally is. Words were hard to find. Or maybe, my thoughts just weren’t coming to me. I was happy. Stupid, but happy. Not grumpy. I am out of those drugs and using normal, boring Motrin, an ibuprofen, anti-inflammatory. No happy, happy there. I couldn’t do a kitten triangulatered on Motrin if I tried. Hey wait! Think maybe my grump is (gasp) withdrawl..?