BROKEN...AND THE IMPORTANCE OF 3:00 A.M.

This is about the next step in my journey. I wrote about where it started here. This is the next piece of the puzzle in making me whole again. 





Broken.

That's all I knew.  Medicine masked the pain, for now. Traction held my leg in place, for now.

But broken isn't dead.  Broken can be fixed.  So broken wasn't THAT bad...... right?

 Everyone told me it could have been so much worse. I knew they were right, but that somehow made me feel guilty for complaining.  What right did I have to feel bad when there were others whose crosses were so much greater to bear?

So I didn't.  At least not out loud. I put on a smile the best I could when others came to visit. I wanted to make THEM feel comfortable. So when they would tell me how lucky I was, I would just lay there, smiling and agree.

But I didn't feel lucky.

I felt...pain.  I felt...depressed.  I felt....angry.  I felt...BROKEN.

I was independent and stubborn and now I had to rely on others for everything....EVERYTHING!

My family was incredible, my husband NEVER complained.  Their lives too were turned upside down, caring for me 24 hours a day.  It was either that or be sent to a nursing home and I couldn't stomach the thought of that.  I just couldn't.

So around the clock I had people with me. Asking if I was okay.  Asking if I needed anything. Jumping to my bedside if I let a moan escape my lips...wanting so desperately to make it better. If only they could.

3:00am quickly became my favorite time of the day. It was quiet...still.  No one was hovering...no one was trying to fix anything.  I love my family so much, but I needed that time.  I needed to know that if I had to turn over or scratch an itch that I could figure out how to do it for myself. It was something small, but it was so important in the healing.  Not the healing of my body, but the healing of my mind...my soul.

I wasn't prepared for the recovery.  I wasn't prepared for everything ELSE that came with healing.

I thought it was all about the broken bones, the ruptured tendons, the stapled skin.  I could endure those things.  Time would heal those things and everything would be fine, right.

I didn't understand it would be more.  So much more.

While the injuries healed, my body would rebel in ways I wasn't prepared for. The human body wasn't meant to be without activity.  It wasn't meant to lie in a bed for months without there being consequences.

Nerve pain and atrophy set in. Pleurisy attacked my lungs. Bodily functions, we take for granted, stopped working. All of these things were consequences and complications that added to the difficult and painful road to recovery.

 I tried to stay positive. I tried to hang on to the knowledge that no matter what lied ahead I WOULD survive it.  I would be a stronger person in the end...a better person.

I longed for the day that rehab could begin.  I knew it would be hard...painful.  (although I COMPLETELY underestimated how hard) I also knew that it would mark the first steps in regaining my power. The first steps in reclaiming myself.

Yes, I longed for that day.  Until then, I would try to find pleasure in the little things....like 3:00am.