I'm not "whole" or whatever.
But I'm having a good time.
People always expect me to be in constant sadness, pain, regret, discomfort, or to be constantly worrying about my hand. I'm used to it now, but the last one was weird for a while. I'd be asked in line at the store, "Does that hurt?" and I'd think, "What, scratching my elbow?... Oh, right."
Thing is, I'm having a good time, most of the time. Maybe even better than before.
As a character in my novel-in-writing put it, "Life is in searching for reasons to live and making them make sense. We don't look for reasons to die... some people want to die, because they don't have enough reason to live. I feel so sorry for them, they have such a big need to satisfy. Some people are the opposite--it's just a few things they're in want of and they can be happy forever. But you and me, Rachel, we have to look for our reasons to live, day after day. I don't know what my reason is, but you know what? It's there. And it's there. They're everywhere, if that's your taste."
I think she (technically, I) was right, and the funny thing is, since this happened, I've found I have more reason to live (and happily), not less. It's like it's become easier to find the presence of God. Walking in the woods, on a leafy path across from the warm August sunset, or having someone open the church door for you, or smile and wish you well instead of bemoan your fate--I just forget about everything bad and feel, well, "whole".
Those who know me know that I had a share of emotional pain a while back (and the funny thing about that is it's exactly the same real or imagined), as a typical teenager (hah!). But until my accident I'd never experienced physical pain to speak of. It opened my eyes, really. You have to be blind or stupid to think the worst thing that can happen to you is unrequited love when you're 16, to reproach myself. And of course I'm getting off easy! I'll be fine in time!
There's a verse in the Bible where God says he will take those with him to heaven and restore them and make them holy. To be honest, I never felt like that was even... something I looked forward to. But once I had been broken, I realized I'm not whole, and I never was, and I need to be restored. I really need that healing, both for body and soul.
And it's there.
--
(Endnote: I also note some parallels between my healing and how we as Christians behave. In short, I give my time each day, every day, in 2-3 hours of painfully teaching my hand how the heck it's supposed to move, my fingers how to bend. Even if my body is repairing the structure, even if I believe and know it's true, this is a process that is impossible without pouring will and effort into it.
The interesting thing about it is that recently, my fingers have been feeling like moving and wiggling even in bandages under the cast, without my thinking about it. Doing the good work, whatever it might be, may at first seem like a "chore" or "something you have to do", but in time it becomes nature--or rather you realize that love and godliness is your nature, just as I am trying by great effort to restore my hand to its original... "whole"ness.)
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
carry-on
I have a conversation that follows me wherever I go...
An amusing/thoughtful comic by Tim Kreider, who was stabbed and survived:
http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/pdf/stabbingstory_1_0808.pdf
It's similar to that;
"What the heck happened to your HAND??"
Siiiiiigh.
"Well, I was on my bike and a car hit me."
"WHAT?! OH MY GOODNESS!"
"No, no, I'll be fine in a month or so."
"Oh, you poor boy! That's criminal! You should SUE!"
"Well, the bills will be paid for, and I'll be fine."
"My (insert possibly imaginary) acquaintance was (at some indistinct time) hurt, and (S)HE sued. Why, it's probably the same mad driver! Do you know, they should get drivers like that OFF the ROAD. Bob, did you hear about this kid? What a shameful waste! All because of people like THAT!"
"I'll be, uh, over here."
"WON'T ANYBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!"
Moral: do not approach strangers when in a cast.
An amusing/thoughtful comic by Tim Kreider, who was stabbed and survived:
http://www.urbanitebaltimore.com/pdf/stabbingstory_1_0808.pdf
It's similar to that;
"What the heck happened to your HAND??"
Siiiiiigh.
"Well, I was on my bike and a car hit me."
"WHAT?! OH MY GOODNESS!"
"No, no, I'll be fine in a month or so."
"Oh, you poor boy! That's criminal! You should SUE!"
"Well, the bills will be paid for, and I'll be fine."
"My (insert possibly imaginary) acquaintance was (at some indistinct time) hurt, and (S)HE sued. Why, it's probably the same mad driver! Do you know, they should get drivers like that OFF the ROAD. Bob, did you hear about this kid? What a shameful waste! All because of people like THAT!"
"I'll be, uh, over here."
"WON'T ANYBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!"
Moral: do not approach strangers when in a cast.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
thank you sir you are very kind
One of the things the doctors tell me a lot is "Well, that's what happens when you get hit by a car." Oh, really? Wonderful. I thought it wasn't. But it seems so... purposeless. Yes, I understand that, given the car, this is natural. But why the car in the first place? That's the questioniola. Is getting hit by a car "what happens when you live normally"? I don't think so! This is a really weird way of encouraging someone.
"We-e-ell, don't you worry! This is what happens when you get hit by a car."
"Thank you, sir, you are very kind."
"We-e-ell, don't you worry! This is what happens when you get hit by a car."
"Thank you, sir, you are very kind."
Saturday, August 08, 2009
the recovery thoughtset
Well, we've hit the three-week mark. That's halfway to being able to chew again and having my pins out (which means serious physiotherapy begins). The origins of the story are old news now, and get mentioned in better detail below anyway. When the physical pain passes, and for the most part it has, you have to do something with your time. My mind is wandering a lot of the time, and it goes through phases.
The first is the helpless or self-pity, and it's awfully stupid but addictive. It says, "Now I can't do anything for myself, I need help, I ought to be the centre of attention and sympathy." In truth, most of what I can't do involves opening stuff. Piano is just entertainment, carrying stuff just takes longer, and typing is... uh, well it's less error-prone. I need help in two things: being driven places and learning how to heal my hand without permanent side effects. I've always needed the first, and I'm getting both anyway. As for attention and sympathy, ask my friends or family - they're giving it by the bucketload. And the kicker? None of this damage (probably) will even be with me in a year; it'll be scars at most. And between now and then I'm getting a lot of free lunches.
The second phase is regret.
It's hard to get around regret, because it was just so darn stupid how it happened. Before I went, my dad stopped me to talk to me and said, "You should fix your bike's front tire; your brother's has bad brakes and it's raining. If you had to, you might not be able to brake." I gotta say, if there is a clearer warning from the heavens, I don't know what it is. What did I reply? "No, I don't feel like fixing mine right now, and Mom's bike's seat is too low, and I have to go on this bike ride now."
Oh, come on! I "have" to? Mistake #1. Either that was just plain old hubris or fate got a fork stuck in its eye. At any rate it was a bad move. I even remember how I felt that day: as I was biking down Mountainview, I felt like the bike ride had been in vain, a waste of time. I didn't enjoy it. I thought I'd go on down to Norval and then just head home and admit to myself that going on a bike ride at that particular moment had not been imperative. When the car pulled up to the sidewalk and failed to look, that's what I was thinking about; I didn't notice her face, or I might have realized she didn't see me. Mistake #2.
Then I saw that I was going to hit the car, and at an angle that it was plowing into me. With the busy road to my right, I had three choices: ditch the bike, swerve to the left onto the grass, or try to brake in the couple meters I had. I didn't have time to think. I chose to brake real hard. There are skid marks. Mistake #3: no brakes could have stopped the bike, or at least not without me flying forward off it, least of all those brakes.
When I hit that car, I released my right hand from the handlebar. The handlebar was crushed under the wheel of the car. My left hand was on it, gripping the brakes. Mistake #4. But that one was just cuz I was in shock.
I've been beating myself up about that, because at any one of those times I could have made a tiny change and saved myself a ton of pain, past and to come. I guess blaming myself makes a nice balance for the pity. It evens it out.
The third phase is phantom pain. I'm pretty sure it's psychosomatic (where what happens in your mind affects you physically). Sometimes I swear I can feel the pins in my hand, and there are six of them through my palm and fingers now, holding the bone in place. I want to tell you the story of the anaesthetic from my second surgery, because it was one of the most weird and horrible times of my life and it feels like it's behind a lot of the waking up in the middle of the night that I do these days, during which times of wakefulness these "phantom pains" appear.
Okay, so we're at the hospital eating an Aero bar, me and my mom. Six hours later, a doctor is saying "HOLY CRAP YOUR HAND IS BAD HOW DID THEY MISS THAT HOLY YOU NEED SURGERY AS SOON AS POSSIBLE GOGOGO GO GOOOOOOO." And an hour after that, a doctor is saying "I'm going to put you under now; ah, have you eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours?"
I had eaten an Aero bar.
The next thirty minutes were spent over about five hours. Doesn't make sense? Okay, fifteen minutes conscious before the surgery and the next conscious fifteen happened immediately five hours later. I was conscious while they slowly moved a long plastic tube down my throat and back up five times to empty my stupid stomach until I could finally be put to sleep, and right from there to a horrible loud bawling in the recovery ward that, hint hint, was from me. The pain wasn't even that bad, and my throat was explainably sore.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I begged as I regained consciousness and tears streamed down my face, "I'm so sorry..."
"You're not crying, don't worry, it's just the waking up," said the nurse.
By the way, last time I woke up it was fun.
Also, I'm sure I wasn't apologizing for the crying. So for what?
Is this just insanity, stubbornness, ignorance, or is there something behind it? Either way, it's been bothering me, and when I think about it, I'm back on the stretcher, choking on a long plastic tube scraping somewhere deep inside me, and on my own vomit.
The final phase my mind drifts through is philosophical thinking, but I don't trust it because 1. a few hours later the great insights I had are gone and 2. it's usually after taking pain pills. The hours of pain pills follow a pattern; the first hour is drowsy, the second is nauseous (though I'm often napping by then), the third is philosophical and the fourth is dizzy, during which my head is cleared of the previous while.
That's not so much the issue, that I have the philosophical times. I enjoy them. I feel like I'm being very productive. I accept who I am and what state I'm in. Heck, I'm in one right now. What I don't like is afterward when I can't remember why I waste every moment of my day doing nothing but sleeping, healing, playing games, checking the mailbox, annoying everyone by playing only the right hands of songs on the piano. It makes me wonder, when I'm on pain pills, if it's easy enough to be happy in regular life.
Masochism?
Anyway, I've been very glad to unload all this rambling, and I chose the word "thinkset" instead of "mindset" because... I can? In summary, my problems nicely cancel each other out:
--Pity for self.
--NOPE! Blame myself.
--Mind in agony at specific times.
--NOPE! Lovely temporary cushion.
The thing is, I hate it.
Three more weeks. Halfway. Till serious physiotherapy.
Reminder to self: God is merciful. I could be dead!
The first is the helpless or self-pity, and it's awfully stupid but addictive. It says, "Now I can't do anything for myself, I need help, I ought to be the centre of attention and sympathy." In truth, most of what I can't do involves opening stuff. Piano is just entertainment, carrying stuff just takes longer, and typing is... uh, well it's less error-prone. I need help in two things: being driven places and learning how to heal my hand without permanent side effects. I've always needed the first, and I'm getting both anyway. As for attention and sympathy, ask my friends or family - they're giving it by the bucketload. And the kicker? None of this damage (probably) will even be with me in a year; it'll be scars at most. And between now and then I'm getting a lot of free lunches.
The second phase is regret.
It's hard to get around regret, because it was just so darn stupid how it happened. Before I went, my dad stopped me to talk to me and said, "You should fix your bike's front tire; your brother's has bad brakes and it's raining. If you had to, you might not be able to brake." I gotta say, if there is a clearer warning from the heavens, I don't know what it is. What did I reply? "No, I don't feel like fixing mine right now, and Mom's bike's seat is too low, and I have to go on this bike ride now."
Oh, come on! I "have" to? Mistake #1. Either that was just plain old hubris or fate got a fork stuck in its eye. At any rate it was a bad move. I even remember how I felt that day: as I was biking down Mountainview, I felt like the bike ride had been in vain, a waste of time. I didn't enjoy it. I thought I'd go on down to Norval and then just head home and admit to myself that going on a bike ride at that particular moment had not been imperative. When the car pulled up to the sidewalk and failed to look, that's what I was thinking about; I didn't notice her face, or I might have realized she didn't see me. Mistake #2.
Then I saw that I was going to hit the car, and at an angle that it was plowing into me. With the busy road to my right, I had three choices: ditch the bike, swerve to the left onto the grass, or try to brake in the couple meters I had. I didn't have time to think. I chose to brake real hard. There are skid marks. Mistake #3: no brakes could have stopped the bike, or at least not without me flying forward off it, least of all those brakes.
When I hit that car, I released my right hand from the handlebar. The handlebar was crushed under the wheel of the car. My left hand was on it, gripping the brakes. Mistake #4. But that one was just cuz I was in shock.
I've been beating myself up about that, because at any one of those times I could have made a tiny change and saved myself a ton of pain, past and to come. I guess blaming myself makes a nice balance for the pity. It evens it out.
The third phase is phantom pain. I'm pretty sure it's psychosomatic (where what happens in your mind affects you physically). Sometimes I swear I can feel the pins in my hand, and there are six of them through my palm and fingers now, holding the bone in place. I want to tell you the story of the anaesthetic from my second surgery, because it was one of the most weird and horrible times of my life and it feels like it's behind a lot of the waking up in the middle of the night that I do these days, during which times of wakefulness these "phantom pains" appear.
Okay, so we're at the hospital eating an Aero bar, me and my mom. Six hours later, a doctor is saying "HOLY CRAP YOUR HAND IS BAD HOW DID THEY MISS THAT HOLY YOU NEED SURGERY AS SOON AS POSSIBLE GOGOGO GO GOOOOOOO." And an hour after that, a doctor is saying "I'm going to put you under now; ah, have you eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours?"
I had eaten an Aero bar.
The next thirty minutes were spent over about five hours. Doesn't make sense? Okay, fifteen minutes conscious before the surgery and the next conscious fifteen happened immediately five hours later. I was conscious while they slowly moved a long plastic tube down my throat and back up five times to empty my stupid stomach until I could finally be put to sleep, and right from there to a horrible loud bawling in the recovery ward that, hint hint, was from me. The pain wasn't even that bad, and my throat was explainably sore.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I begged as I regained consciousness and tears streamed down my face, "I'm so sorry..."
"You're not crying, don't worry, it's just the waking up," said the nurse.
By the way, last time I woke up it was fun.
Also, I'm sure I wasn't apologizing for the crying. So for what?
Is this just insanity, stubbornness, ignorance, or is there something behind it? Either way, it's been bothering me, and when I think about it, I'm back on the stretcher, choking on a long plastic tube scraping somewhere deep inside me, and on my own vomit.
The final phase my mind drifts through is philosophical thinking, but I don't trust it because 1. a few hours later the great insights I had are gone and 2. it's usually after taking pain pills. The hours of pain pills follow a pattern; the first hour is drowsy, the second is nauseous (though I'm often napping by then), the third is philosophical and the fourth is dizzy, during which my head is cleared of the previous while.
That's not so much the issue, that I have the philosophical times. I enjoy them. I feel like I'm being very productive. I accept who I am and what state I'm in. Heck, I'm in one right now. What I don't like is afterward when I can't remember why I waste every moment of my day doing nothing but sleeping, healing, playing games, checking the mailbox, annoying everyone by playing only the right hands of songs on the piano. It makes me wonder, when I'm on pain pills, if it's easy enough to be happy in regular life.
Masochism?
Anyway, I've been very glad to unload all this rambling, and I chose the word "thinkset" instead of "mindset" because... I can? In summary, my problems nicely cancel each other out:
--Pity for self.
--NOPE! Blame myself.
--Mind in agony at specific times.
--NOPE! Lovely temporary cushion.
The thing is, I hate it.
Three more weeks. Halfway. Till serious physiotherapy.
Reminder to self: God is merciful. I could be dead!
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