No. 40: Trash chair thoughts

Eight weeks ago I had hip surgery. I’ve ditched the crutches in exchange for baby steps. Every day I get a little better, or sometimes a little worse. Looking back on how far I’ve come is much more rewarding than it is to be uncertain about the future.

Around week three, I was anxious to be back to “normal” and deflated when my PT told me I wouldn’t be walking until around weeks 6 to 8. I didn’t want to believe him and I secretly thought I might be an anomaly. Maybe I could beat the odds; be the best patient despite my impatience. It turns out that you can’t really overachieve your way through healing, which is messy and nonlinear and impossible to predict.

I still have pain. I still have doubts. I wonder if I’m doing too much or too little or being too lazy or should I practice what I preach and finally believe myself when I tell others that “rest is productive!” Although that phrasing still makes me feel competitive. Am I resting properly? Should I move more, or differently, or some secret third option? Can someone just tell me exactly what I’m supposed to be doing?

This major life reset has helped me make a few new habits, which is always hard for me despite my obsessive personality: I am drinking more water, eating more fresh foods, taking my vitamins, doing laundry more frequently, and trying harder to be delighted by the mundane moments.

Today, I carried my full laundry basket into the basement; last weekend I took the bus downtown for a Pride festival; and yesterday morning I deep cleaned my apartment from top to bottom for the first time in 8 weeks. This week, I removed my toilet extension and grab bars (I would have kept it on because it was honestly so comfortable but it prevented my bathroom door from closing which was a bit weird for my guests).

I’ve had a lot of disparate feelings over the past 8 weeks, including curiosity, sadness, grief, gratitude, and anxiety. It’s more interesting when I step outside of myself and observe the changes as if they were happening to someone else. It gets darker when I allow myself to wallow and take it all personally.

It’s tempting to lean into rose-colored nostalgia, to yearn for a time when nothing ached; none of us escape unscathed. We have surgeries and illnesses and accidents and bad days and hardships and harm ourselves and others, intentionally or not, nefariously or innocently, over and over and over again.