One Week to Go

Next Monday afternoon I hope to be able to report that Dr. Boaz has released me from my non-weight-bearing status.  My speculation is that physical therapy will be ordered; pilates and yoga... probably not.

These last 7 days are going to be special.  The temptation to rush the healing, to lean on my right side just a little, to wonder if the bone cells really do need the last few hours to heal themselves properly - it's like smelling fresh out of the fryer donuts dangling just out of reach.  I am so tired of being dependent.

Dr. Boaz isn't concerned about my redder than the other foot as long as it doesn't hurt and the temperature doesn't vary.  Apparently, I still have vascularity issues.  Who knew?  His nurse asked me if it was less colorful first thing in the morning, but I never remember to look at my foot first thing in the morning so, once again, who knew? 

I am not used to my body playing tricks on me.  Then again, I've never been shot before.

I missed the Fiesta in the Barrio this weekend.  My concert buddies were busy and a street fair on my own felt more like work than fun.  The Golden Gopher and his lovely wife dropped by Sunday afternoon to share the glow from Calexico and to agree that I had made a wise decision in avoiding the event.  Next year.... next year.

The crepe myrtles are leafing out all around the remains of last year's flowers.  The finches have moved on to tastier pastures and now those remnants just hang there, looking sad.  I suppose that I could get myself over the uneven gravel covered berms and stand close enough to trim them from my walker, but I can hear the screams of "NO!" from those who love me and know of my general clumsiness.  Next week, I guess.

I finished the last of the library books a neighbor toted me over to get.  She was just here, dropping off dinner, and I know that I should have asked her to take me back to the library sometime this week. But asking is really hard for me.  Chicago Gal filters my requests through to the Newcomers Care group; left to my own devices no one would be asked. 

And it's so silly, because everyone seems to take real joy in helping.  People seem to want to be part of my recovery.  It's not celebrity they are seeking.  It's closeness to the tragedy and a sense that they are putting a band aid on an awfully big owie.  There's a tenderness to the outreach, whether it's a home cooked meal from a friend or a giant hug from a total stranger. 

Yes, people feel the need to hug me. This is different from the hands I removed from my pregnant abdomen.  This isn't invading my personal space. This is enveloping me in a communal healing place.  We are hugging one another.

It's weird.  I know.  I know it's weird when it's happening.  And I love it.  I don't get it, but I love it.  I am truly feeling the love.

Someone commented on my cheery attitude last week and I just had to wonder what she expected from me.  Did she expect me to be wracked with misery and remorse?  Quivering? Quavering? Diminished in some way?  Or was she going toward angry and vengeful and filled with rage?  Neither of those extremes appeals to me. 

They don't tempt me.  They won't bring Christina back.  They won't fill the hole in my heart.  There's nothing ..... and that's such a big word I can't get past it. 

I'm not a person who is comfortable with the fact that there isn't some way I can fix the problem.  Just ask the Cuters, or the kids I babysat, or any of my clients; "What do you think we can do about that?" is my natural response to an issue.   Nothing .... absolutely nothing.

So, I smiled at the girl who'd asked about my smile and I said that I was happy, that I was alive, and that was enough for me right now. 

And that's where I am on Monday afternoon: dependent but not despondent.