Time Travel With Me

Writing to write. Write write write. Type type type. Epiphanies arrive and float by. Pens and keyboards seem far away. Trying to move through time and heal along the way. Trying not to let the situation get me too depressed. Feeling myself moving back to that place where I was before I started dancing. Fear. Fear of getting hurt. Fear that my body won’t support me. Fear that I will fall down. Fear that some part of me will break. 


In the worst moments of the last four weeks I imagine my body unable to walk again, shriveled. I start to imagine I have some muscular degenerative disease or systemic breakdown. Waiting for all the other parts to shut down. The hypochondriac in me starts to analyze every aspect of my physical being. Was that bump there yesterday? What was that flash of pain? Am I losing too much hair? Is this normal swelling? Is this a blot clot? Is that a blood clot? I’m able to quickly catastrophize something small. A learned behavior that illness gets attention. I’m watching it, and moving through it. 


Right now, as I type this and imagine dancing, my muscles tense with fear. Even as I think about walking on an uneven surface, pain starts to throb. Doubt creeps in. Am I making the right decision? Should I have another surgery? Is it right to go in and remove a part of my body to make things easier now? I’ll never get those pieces back, and right now medicine does not have a proven meniscus replacement option. Today I searched, found and read articles and postings that state outcomes are about the same with or without surgery.


…..I love that it’s possible to find arguments to prove any point you want to make. Is it too late for law school? My mind wanders on that train for a while. Law school would have been fun, but the work, the actual work isn’t for me. I start to imagine the other students, the competitiveness, the boring reading…and then I’m on the reading train…I’m going to write something controversial here…I don’t like reading. Never have. Tried lots of techniques. I’m grateful YOU like reading, and that we can have time space travel here together on this page…That’s what this is…you and I have this moment here…now…writer and reader…a place we can be together anytime…past…present future….…this is a much bigger topic for another time….back to the report at hand… 


I recall how painful it was after the second knee surgery back in 2005. Granted, it was ACL reconstruction surgery, so a little different, but waking up at home a day later when the anesthesia and pain medicines were starting to fade was excruciating. 


I have changed so much in the past 11 years. Now, I’d prefer to take the natural approach. I’m willing to wait, be patient with my body. Sit with the pain. I’m not taking any prescription medications for this injury. The strongest pain medicine I’ve taken is 500 mg of acetaminophen. For the past week or so, I’m only taking it at night if needed. While I’m more patient than I was 11 years ago, I still have an active mind and spirit, so I’ve been pushing the home rehab program to the point of *bearable* pain, and exhaustion by the end of the day. 


The current national obsession with prescription pain medications is timely. Personally, prescription pain meds haven’t done much for me. Muscle relaxers, are another thing, they used to help with my back and knees. Helped me to stop thinking and sleep. Here’s where I’m pausing, considering a boundary. I want to write about my last job, the clinic, our pain program. Feeling a boundary here. I’ve been aware of my feelings about being seen by my former professional and academic community. Feeling/thinking that this level of writing is beneath an expected standard. Imagining the faces of a few professors, advisors, colleagues reading this, makes me shrink, and want to hide. Reminds me that I can do better. I’m capable of a lot. It’s just been a while since I’ve had to knuckle down on a project and produce. 


Doing lots of random online research on a variety of topics to keep my mind occupied between episodes of Scandal. The topics run the gamut: presidential history, meniscus tear rehab, state and local ballot initiatives, nomadic options, anatomy, subtle energy, screenwriting, html, coding. I have always dreamed of being a fly on the wall in the Saturday Night Live writers room, and now I dream of buzzing in the Scandal writer’s room. Starting to feel into more of what life as a writer is all about. This shift from following someone else’s dream to my own is a trip without a map or compass. 


On a technical tip - I have spent many hours trying to fix some problems with this website. It’s frustrating. Back and forth with tech support, and searches on developer sites. Programming stuff is not my thing. So here’s what’s not working and annoying me about this site: 1) I can’t get the bottom nav menu from the blog main page to appear on any other pages, so if you see one blog page it gives you four others at the bottom to read, but doesn’t show you the dozen others as options; 2) the Facebook comments box and like buttons appeared after I published the site, I didn't put them there, it's a template. I like having them there, but the moderation tool isn’t working, and the like count seems to reset itself at random. Other people on the FB developer site are having similar problems and not getting answers. Oh and 3) I know the analytics aren’t correct, but I am not enough of a techie to explain or begin to attempt a fix. 


Switching topics….let’s futurize for a moment…What am I going to be/do when I can walk up and down stairs again (nope not there yet)? I have no idea. Trying to calm this monster storm of internal and external questions is hard work. Maybe I’ll be a digital nomad writing about what it’s like to be a nomad at mid-life, offering Mommy-ing as I travel, finding part-time catering support jobs along the way *being at home affirms how much I enjoy being in the kitchen with beautiful ingredients…..I just don’t want to be the chef*… If I can travel, stay strong and healthy, hug people, spread the web of love and dance, I’m good.