Standing Room Only

Mile Marker 396:

There are days when I will do anything for ice cream.  

Then there are days when I can’t DO ANYTHING.

Today is one of those days.

It began yesterday, but not really.  This struggle's been going on a long, long time.  

About 16 months, I guess.

Yesterday itself wasn’t even that bad.  I mean as far as work days go.    We got two evaluations done, scooped some great gelato for Elvira’s birthday, and arranged services for one of our neediest students.   Productive, really.

But the thing is, I STOOD.

I mean I didn't sit down.  For the whole day.

I perched my laptop on three thick binders so I could reach the keyboard from a standing position.  I hovered over Chase's shoulder so we could collaborate on the wording of a report.  I walked outside to pick up lunch three blocks away.

Prosthetically speaking, it was STANDING ROOM ONLY.

Because each time I tried to SIT, I got a burning, tugging, jabbing pain just below my aptly named "sitz" bone --    that's ischium tuberosity, if you want to get specific.   

Those first few seconds of sitting were bearable.  But then I found myself inching toward the edge of the chair.  Leaning toward my right side.  Skimming the same paragraph on my computer screen over and over again.  Typing in a sentence that made no sense.

Yes, that's Shred!

Each sound in the room distracted me.  The singing from the kindergarten across the hall.  The paper-munching from our ancient shredder we call “Shred.”   

Each time the office phone rang, I jumped up (figuratively, of course) to answer it.

I lost my place twenty times.  Ran errands around the school.  Stopped to check my mailbox in the lobby.

As long as I stood, I avoided that discomfort.  

But unfortunately, even in the high-tech world of prosthetics, the laws of physics apply.  For every action there's an equal and opposite reaction.

By late afternoon, all that standing took its toll.  My right knee and ankle ached with pressure.  The high inner edge of the socket dug into my bikini line.

After an uncomfortable car ride home, I collapsed onto my bed.  I released the suction valve and gently peeled the socket shell away from my burning skin.

Then I burst into tears.

It's not that I saw something horrible.  The raw skin wasn’t any worse than usual.  There was a thin white line created by a new pinch.  And those red bumps I've gotten used to had grown just a bit little bigger.

But at that moment, all the seats were taken.   The feelings had no place to go.

My inner stadium had reached full capacity. 

It was STANDING ROOM ONLY.

Two weeks ago, my dad took a photo of a billboard he and my mom passed on their way to Vermont for my niece Riley’s second birthday.  I couldn’t make the drive that weekend.  If sitting in the car for the 20-minute ride home from work is bad, can you imagine 8 hours?

But if I had been there, this sign would've caught my eye, too.

If you take a close look, it's linked to a website.  I now subscribe, so it sends uplifting “quotes of the day” to my e-mail inbox each morning.  

A few mornings ago, this one from George S. Patton arrived:

Success is how high you bounce when you hit bottom.

I know I’m not at the bottom.  Already, I’ve seen many lower places on this journey.  And I've met friends who've been even lower.

But still, it rang true.

More surgery lies ahead.  More weeks on crutches.  More uncertainty about the future.

Last night, even another day in my prosthesis seemed like too much.

Shortly after my meltdown, the phone rang.   Mom.  (She has a sixth sense, I think...)

“I don’t want to WEAR this anymore,” I told her.  “I don’t want to do any of this.”

I'm sure I sounded like a cranky four-year-old, but she listened, encouraged, and of course reminded me we’re in this together. 

We are.  I have the most supportive family that anyone could ask for.

Between them and the guy on the billboard, I know I haven't completely lost HEART.  

I want my life back.  And I'm willing to work for it.  

But sometimes the stadium just gets too full.

So today I'm resting.  

My little leg is wrapped tightly in its shrinker.  My Genium is plugged in, charging up for another day.  

Like I am, I guess.

I've cancelled out the rest of the week to let these latest wounds heal.

To let the stadium empty a bit.  

To find a place to SIT DOWN.