Angry Cookies

Mile Marker 89:

On the way to Vermont, Route 89 is a good sign.   I’m usually dreary by then, contacts glued to my irises, teeth aching from Sour Patch Kids.  But the highway points to my sister’s house and the comforting warmth of arrival.  Route 89 means the long drive is almost over.

Mile Marker 89, not so much.

The last few miles have been uncomfortable.   Ankle-blades biting.  Sensitive spots pinching.  And something inside just burning and burning.

Yesterday afternoon, things finally came to a head.  Or more precisely, to cookies.

I’d tried everything else I could think of.

Went to PT.   Did exercises.  Drove in the car.   Met friends for lunch.  Read a book.   Checked my e-mail.  Nothing helped.

I need a long walk, I thought.  To get outside and start moving and forget about everything else.    But partway around the block, my muscles screamed from overuse.  I stopped to rest, already frustrated from the short distance I’d covered.   I plugged onward.   Finally, I rounded the last corner and limped back to my front door.  Defeated after only three blocks.  I’d forgotten that walking is no longer a respite.

In my bedroom, I took off my prosthesis and settled in to watch “The Adjustment Bureau.”  I thought a good movie might distract me, that some downtime might smolder the fire in my leg.  Two hours later, Matt Damon reigned victorious, but my ankle-blades did not abate.

Prosthesis on, I paced again with restless energy.  I wanted to run hard.  To pedal into a headwind on Kelly Drive.  To really MOVE.  But the impossibility of it all had me at a standstill.

I started to bake cookies instead. 

The kind of cookies that required chopping, and stirring, and lots and lots of bowls.  The kind that required tearing open 40 individual-sized Heath Bars and mixing, by-hand, three cups of rolled oats.  

And when the pain broke through, I added loud music.  Miss Saigon, if you must know.  (That helicopter scene is a great release!)  Go ahead.  Make fun.  It would just add fuel to my fire.

It wasn’t until I was washing dishes that I finally realized what was up.  Hands soapy, my mind wandered back to the movie I’d watched a few hours earlier.  Damn that Adjustment Bureau!  I thought.  They left me in the lurch.  They were supposed to give my bike a flat tire that day.  They were supposed to work the traffic lights.  Unless…. Could this all be a part of their evil plan??   

Damn that Adjustment—

And just like that -- mid-sentence -- my thought shifted to... Damn that TRASH TRUCK!   

Was this anger?

I am not an angry person.  I don’t like to be angry.   And I don’t like it when others are angry.

I like to fix things.  To find solutions.  I am a problem-solver.

Here are my usual thoughts:

I will read until I feel better.

I will work until I feel better.

I will rest until I feel better.

I will bake until I feel better.

I will ignore all this, and soon it will be over.

But there are no shortcuts here.

No easy fixes.

And no end in sight.

This is NOT the familiar haul up Route 89 in Vermont.

As I turned off the faucet, the house was suddenly silent.  My blaring music had ended. 

I grabbed my iPad and pulled up a chair to the kitchen counter.

Waiting in my e-mail box was an invitation to watch the latest Youtube video by Josh Sundquist, an inspirational amputee whose Youtube channel is one of my favorites.

Here’s the link.  It’s a minute long.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MrY6I7HO2S4&feature=digest_refresh_sat

So, was this a sign that the Adjustment Bureau hadn’t forgotten about me after all?

I guess some days and some miles are just going to be like this.  Unpleasant and uncomfortable.  Even unbearable.

Josh's video spoke to me.

I, too, am not sure I can make it through a lifetime of having one leg.  Sometimes, like yesterday, I’m not even sure I can make it through one day.

But can I make it through a moment?  I think so.  

I can make cookies.  Angry Cookies.

And boy do they taste good.