The temp reached seventy before noon.
I did visit my little greenhouse on the deck to water seedlings.
Posting most of my weight on my left leg allowed tinkering and a break from being on my butt.
I have never done injured well. And the doctor did say I could not do any harm. I just needed to let pain be my guiding hand. Don’t be like what some people do and stop doing things. The ER doc said that to me. Gotta keep moving if you can.
Injuries and me have been synonymous. Pushing the envelope, pushing my body. I wanted to throw a baseball, a football, whatever hard. My shoulder would sublux. Fancy weird word for almost dislocating. Automatic reflex put the joint ball back in socket. A few windmills and I could throw again and even farther. It didn’t hurt in the beginning.
By high school, I had adapted to side arm as almost any over hand throw or over shoulder move would cause subluxation. I tried avoiding the sling as much as possible.
I could throw regularly now since my orthopedic surgeon performed his magic scoping and fixed me, but I prefer the sidearm delivery.
Hockey, lacrosse, and physical education courses compounded my problems. Preexisting conditions. The second I came off the ice, ice would be shoved down my shorts free my four to five minute break from the action. My ortho guy said I had arthritis on top of my curvature of the spine. I slept on the floor with my knees up on a chair, though soon I have up on sleep altogether. Different story. It was college. I was busy. I didn’t have time.
Sometimes I would get injured and not even know it. I was in the trainers room supporting a friend as she thought she broke her thumb. Lacrosse balls hurt like a son of a bitch. Back then, goalies didn’t wear gloves. Not women’s lacrosse. Someone caught sight of my thumb. Mine was broken. My friend was okay.
I kept playing. Played with broken fingers in high school as a soccer goalie. Tape is the solution to everything.
When I bulldozed my way into an offensive lacrosse attacker on a one-on-one, my ortho doc slapped a cast on me just tip slow me down. He told me that I would probably need surgery. I did not slow down. I threw at lacrosse practice. I even took up bowling. Amazing what a cast can do for slowing down an approach and keep a pivot leg straight.
I am not as bad as I used to be. I have iced this injury more than any other. I am doing everything I am supposed to do.
I had to go to the garden today. I slowly ambled up the freshly cut path between house and garden, thanks to Sylvia Sandoz. Barefooted. Crutching gave me freedom of using support in between tests of what I can and can’t do. Most twinges come on the inside of my knee with some on top of the knee.
My lower leg talks a lot. Almost seems like parts of my body talk to each other. An instance of pain in my ankle creates a response by my knee. Morse code. Sometimes my body curses me.
But I had to go to the garden. My sanity depended upon it. Now I know that some of you question if there is any sanity left. You might be right.
My pilgrimage of crutch, step, crutch, step was slow and steady. Slow enough for spiders and beetles to scurry in front of me. Rain has been good to the grass. Great for big dogs to lurk.
I picked up a weeding tool just in case. Meanwhile, the mind chatter was like a busy bee hive. You shouldn’t be doing this. But I have my crutches. I am even using them. Mostly. No point in lying to myself, but I try. Rationalization veils, thinly veils the truth. I need the exercise. This is good for me. It did feel good. The sun. The cool grass under many barefeet. Listening to the birds. You’ll pay the price later. My friend Jeff said I paid the price in spades the other day.
I better start to keep my grievances to myself.
The problem is I don’t know what is wrong. I don’t know what I did to myself two Fridays ago after Abby the Labby Number Nine tripped me going down stairs.
ER doc said nothing was broken. There’s a slight chance Xrays wouldn’t detect slight fractures. I have broken digits and my nose, but big bones aren’t on my list. I want to keep it that way.
Once I got into the garden I let go of the crutches and weeding tool. Just get my body down onto the ground. It didn’t matter that I had no plan on how to get back up again. One thing at a time.
My mission was simple: weed the garden. At least a few of them. Weeding has always been therapeutic. A good day during chemo days meant I could pull a weed. Productivity, however small, does wonders for the disheartened heart.
The raspberries needed some breathing room and might even thank me profusely to eliminating the choking weeds. And I would feel better.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t do too much, and I didn’t. I figure if I do more to help the healing than testing the limits, I am on the positive side of things.