(just for fun, soundtrack of a wild year)

 
I went into a bit of a huff last week. Sliding into a dark pond covered in duckweed, knowingly and yet, the way it makes you feel. Guilty and couldn't care less at the same time.
Oh poor me and so on. But shhhh, nobody was looking.

And then I cycled. Twice. Short cold windy distances. Terrified I should do harm to my back. But, oh the freedom.

This is me with my first proper bicycle, in 1964 the summer before I started school, I am six years old.

This is my grandmother (never granny) with her bicycle in her hometown. She is maybe 12 years old, so this picture was taken 60 years earlier, 1904 or thereabouts. She never learned to drive, never had to. Every Monday and Thursday, she cycled into town, on the cobblestone pavement, for market, butcher, baker and gossip, until she was well into her nineties.

My application for the medical rehabilitation program has been approved, starting next week Wednesday, six hours/day, five days/week for three weeks. I expect nothing short of miracles. Seriously. Or else. (I am scared shitless it will come to nothing and I shall remain a stranded beetle forever).

Slow life report seven weeks after surgery. The birds are very noisy and busy. I counted three (3!) of the 100+ snowdrops of previous years in bloom. When I accused R of of having dug them up last summer he did not deny it. In fact, he gave his usual spiel about useless plants taking up valuable space. I grow veg, he says.
Seriously. This is what the world has come to.

At this stage, I am ready to sell my soul for an evening in the old armchair, all crooked and rolled up, legs hanging over the side. Instead, I watch an old Endeavour episode, lying on my side, while R tells me what I am missing from the plot because, well, it is a completely different angle.
Last night, I watched American Honey, which you can watch from all angles and still find amazing and sad and strangely hopeful.

But. But. But. I am able to walk down to the river and back and every day, I add another very tiny loop through our quiet neighbourhood to extend the distance.  I am allowed to sit for an hour max at a time (albeit no sofa or armchair). Twice a day, I diligently do my exercises as directed by the physiotherapist. I even cook dinner occasionally. In fact, I am discovering the many things a person can do while keeping an upright back but without twisting or bending: ironing, hoovering, washing the kitchen floor, cleaning the bathroom sink (but not the bathtub or the shower), moving tomato/pepper/aubergine seedlings into larger pots, cleaning the fridge - all suddenly delightful activities for a formerly and still somewhat stranded beetle.

Also, at some stage next week, my bicycle will have been fitted with state-of-the-art saddle suspension and elevated handlebars and I shall be able to cycle again - only for short flat and therapeutic distances, don't hold your breath here.

However, the right leg remains stubbornly limp and I continue to walk the sloppy way of a duck that has one paralyzed foot (wait, that's me). The outlook is meagre but apparently not hopeless which is why we are waiting for a letter from the powers that are, aka health authorities, in reply to my request for a specific rehabilitation program. In my dreams, I am already there but in reality, there are all sorts of obstacles. It's complicated. I am impatient. I want this to be over. I want things the way they were three months ago. I know, silly.

Halfway through February. The open bedroom window. Birdsong since well before daybreak. Gorgeous birdsong. Now, after I watched R cycle off to work, with his energy and purpose like a sparkling cloud surrounding him (or maybe it was just his shiny red anorak), I am back in bed waiting for my day to find purpose and for my body to gather energy.
I could occupy myself. I could distract myself. I could make a plan, write down all the little tasks and schedules that are waiting somewhere for attention (or not). And in time, I will do all of these. Because that's what will get me through the day. 

But right now I am trying to not remember process what two experts told me yesterday after they had banged their little hammers onto my knees and ran their needles along my legs. Namely, that nerve cells do not regrow. That unlike all other cells in our bodies, nerve cells when damaged are kaput for ever. That muscles need nerve cells in order to function. And that while muscles can be tricked into activity even when nerve cell damage has occurred, extensive damage can also imply permanent paralysis.

Theoretically speaking, I am fucked.

But hey.
It's only one foot and most of the leg attached to it. Actually, one of the experts was quite enthusiastic about cycling, could be possible, he nodded, probably easier than walking. Eventually. 

So here is the plan: In time, slowly, slowly, I am going to get those muscles, hell, all and any of my muscles, into tip top shape, I swear it, here and now.

(As of today, I am on sickness benefits, i.e. my salary is paid the working masses.)

This bit of music, simply for the name of the band:  

Every morning I get up charged with another load of enthusiasm, or rather, I carefully turn from my back to one side and lift my body en-bloc to crawl out of the bed that R has raised (using four small concrete blocks) to the level recommended by the trauma surgeon.

I am half way through the six weeks of life as a stranded beetle and well, let's be patient. The stitches are out, the wound is healing. I am shaky and shattered. Of course I wonder if there is something else going on, after all that's my strength, waiting for signs of the volcano to erupt and yes, there are some signs.  But generally, I am fed up to my teeth of having to lie flat on my back - for another 21 nights, after which I should be better equipped to handle another autoimmune flare.

Sometimes I do dramatic things like standing upright for a much too short while with my laptop resting on a pile of books so that I can edit a paper on chronic liver disease management, or I slowly walk downstairs and make coffee and microwave-cheat chocolate brownies, followed by a brief walk through the winter silence of the garden.

There are tiny moments of amazing rest and clarity, when I see it all before me, recovery and so on. But mostly and despite my careful attempts of regular patterns (shower, relaxation, reading, tea and hours and hours of online tv)  I am swirling through chaos. Well, at least there's a certain because surely we all know that there is no way to order chaos. Nothing can be charted, ordered and predicted.

I sent the man out to show me that the world is still waiting for me and he came back with fresh fruit and this reassuring picture.

in which I try to come up with a positive outlook

I just wrote another whiny post about my life as a stranded beetle in pain and halfway through writing it, I knew. This. Won't. Do.  All my pep talks about how my body constantly produces new cells striving for health. Useless at 3 am. Anyway, it is down below as a record of this cloudy January morning with a few snow flakes here and there. 

For now, let's take a look at this:

I found this in my father's sideboard last summer. Apparently, this is the wedding of someone from my paternal grandfather's family, maybe his sister's. I recognise nobody, my grandfather is not in it, so it must have happened before my grandparents got married in 1919.

This was the Munich branch of the family, the wealthy educated bourgeois members of a wealthy society. They had salons and debating clubs and musical soirees. These men were judges, attorneys and senior civil servants. The women were wives and sisters and daughters. They did needlework and played musical instruments. To my eye, the picture looks like a game of charades, the "crying" girls, the "angel" holding her hands above the couple. I wonder if they were ready to burst into laughter. Or maybe it was a fashionable thing young people did at the time, barely tolerated by the more elderly (female) family members. 

But maybe it simply was like that, two upset little girls, the sister of the bride a bit tipsy on a chair in the back, playing up. The spinster aunt on the right not amused. The protestant pastor on the left keeping his distance.

Actually, I think this picture was possibly taken before the first world war. If so,  Munich was still the capital of the kingdom of Bavaria.

I wish I knew more about photography and fashion and eye glasses to date this picture.

Whereas the lament earlier was as follows:

Once again I wake at 3 am with that pain all along my right leg.  And my mind goes into overdrive. Before I know it I see myself battling a future life with chronic pain. Jeez. This is night 10 after surgery. Early days. I hope.  

Thing is, I recognise nerve pain. It's bloody obvious. Ten years ago I lived through the great dentist disaster and although I eventually came out at the other end alive and well I very much don't want to have a repeat experience elsewhere in my body. 

R is grumpy and worried and coughing and insists on me eating some toast, which I find almost impossible. My brother calls and again, we compare notes on our various surgeries and injuries. Stay on top of it, he tells me. Distract yourself. 

Make yourself small, says the tiny voice in my head. The world is enormous and this is a small event. Watch yourself cope and remember that millions are also coping, mostly under worse circumstances. But also: prepare yourself and seek help. 

I am scared. It's the easy option for now. I am not proud of myself.