hamburgers

Man, having a broken whatever is hard!  It takes me hours just to get up and get showered & get my contacts in and everything.  Not least of all because I have to rest between every step.  Then I have to make certain I have everything before I head downstairs to make tea.  Because I do not want to go back upstairs once I have gone downstairs.  There is an accounting of every step that has to happen and oh.

It is not the going up and down the stairs per se, it is that I do not use the crutches but instead crabwalk up and swing myself down, so have to drag the crutches along, or have a child ferry them to me and, ok enough, this is tiresome to recount & (I would imagine) to read.

I was lying on the second-floor landing, just on the floor, a few days ago, waiting for Fifille to bring my crutches.  She leaned them on the bookshelf next to me & went into their playroom.  I kept lying there, and she came out after a while to ask if I was all right.  I told her I was just feeling sad, not sad that I had to crawl up the steps or whatever, but just sad that I was broken, that I felt interrupted & frustrated. 

She knelt by my shoulder and told me she knew exactly how I felt, that she felt the same when she broke her arm.  I told her that I remembered her feeling that way, but having never broken myself, I had no idea how she was feeling, and now I do.  It was sweet, and it would not have happened with my whole unbroken foot. 

I try to not be too sad or cranky, and mostly it works out.  Unless I get hungry.  If I get hungry, it is all over and much screaming can happen.  Mari observes that it is much like when I was pregnant, where by the time I notice I am hungry, it is too late to escape the raving & shrieking.  I guess it is the rebuilding happening?  Ravenous, is all I know. 

I do have to schedule a little time in every day to cry, like Holly Hunter in Broadcast News.  There is just too much happening and so much of it is slow and the torture of the innocents and I have to be kind & painstakingly informative to children who say "What?" in reply to every instruction which makes me so angry, it just shorts out my goddamn brain just exactly so very much like Sam Jackson in Pulp Fiction & I have to just maintain self-control & not make everyone miserable, so I just keep quiet (except about being hungry). 

But I am getting better, faster on the crutches, and by the end, perhaps I will be sliding down the banister!  (Say what again!  I dare you!  I double dare you!) 

Comments

[santos.]

by the end, perhaps you will be sliding down the banister!