Five days ago, while performing a heart-felt and enthusiastic karaoke version of "Raise Your Glass!" by P!nk for a dear friend on her birthday, I dislocated my patella. There's something about dancing, jumping, pivoting and landing, in flip flops, that does not mix with my particular set of quadriceps and ligaments.
If something like that had to happen, it could not have happened in a better place: my friend's home, with all my neighborhood friends present, including a paramedic. I'm an extraordinarily lucky person.
We were in and out of the ER inside of two hours--most of the time was spent after an unacceptably handsome French attending physician "reduced the patella" (google that, it's quite horrible). They fitted me with an immobilizing splint and crutches, we went through registration, we went home. It was a symphony of efficiency. I'm extraordinarily lucky.
We got home to find my neighbors waiting in an adjacent driveway, in lawn chairs, cheering our return home. Again, I'm extraordinarily lucky.
I'm reminding myself of this fact--my luck--because this ridiculous event and utterly disruptive injury are also teaching me some things about myself that I don't think I've ever been quite ready to learn.
One neighbor who learned of the accident the next day told me, "Sometimes these things happen to us because we haven't been taking care of ourselves and we need to slow down." My first reaction to this statement was defensiveness. It was as if somebody were telling me the injury was my fault. I replied, "Maybe."
But as the days on crutches have progressed, I'm rethinking my answer. It should have been "Definitely."
My first lesson: my exercise regimen has been sorely deficient. I should have learned and acted on this long ago, and even when my back went out last month, I haven't since been diligent enough with my core strengthening. I haven't been careful enough with regard to lifting anything over 15 pounds. I don't stretch regularly. I don't work with weights. I just want my 45 minutes of cardio everyday. No reason or excuse. I've just been stubborn and lazy, at the same time. Very unattractive.
My second lesson: I'm more impatient than I ever could have imagined. Who tells the paramedical team caring for her that she doesn't have time for all this, she can't go to the hospital, she has two small children and things to do? Who says that? Me. Ridiculous.
But my impatience manifests in other ridiculous ways. I can't stand how long it takes me to get dressed, take a shower, or get in bed. It infuriates me that I can't carry a cup of coffee to my desk--that I'm actually stuffing a sealed travel mug in my waistband and getting where I need to go. I actually move as fast as I can on crutches. For no reason. There are no deadlines or places to be, I just can't stand moving slowly. That's just foolish.
Yesterday, in a fit of simultaneous self-pity, frustration, and disgust, I figured out how to do three loads of laundry and clean two bathrooms while on crutches. Thinking about it today--I realize that I simply couldn't wait for my husband to help me. I just couldn't wait.
Why couldn't I wait? What am I trying to prove? And who am I trying to prove "it" to? It's not like I'm going to get a medal or a gold star or an A+ because I'm acting like nothing has happened and I can still be speedy and tidy and efficient.
Tomorrow I'll learn from an orthopedic surgeon exactly what I can and can't do during rehabilitation. I'm hoping, hard, that I'll be able to drive with a strong but flexible brace on my knee. Hoping I'm strong enough to walk, maybe with a cane, instead of crutches, very, very soon. My husband thinks I'm going to find I'm not as bad off as I think, and he tends to be right about things... Or I need to believe he's right about these things.
In the meantime, I have a dear neighbor and friend who takes my daughter to kindergarten with her son. My daughter now has a new best friend and wants to play with him all the time. My son has been out of preschool and home with me, and the one-on-one time has been especially nice. I'm seeing how helpful and patient my children are. They can and want to help me. All those moments where I imagine that they see me as merely the one who cleans up and feeds them have been erased from my memory.
I find myself laughing more, getting pleased with myself for my little accomplishments (because while it annoyed me that I stuff a travel mug of coffee down my pants, it made my kids laugh, and as a result, I laughed too.)
I'm extraordinarily lucky.
A forced slow-down is a good thing sometimes. I'm able to look at myself more closely, and take steps to improve myself and my approach to things. Slowly. And definitely.
