I am quite a tough girl. During the day I laugh a lot, despite the fact that I can’t do anything. I joke around with visitors, do what I can do by myself and undergo my (ill) fate without too much grumbling. But when everyone is gone and I am home alone or alone with Tom the tears come all too often. Powerless anger because I can’t do the things I want to do. Because I notice – after taking four pictures – that I have done just a little too much.
Because it is just unfair that I am now chained to bed here. And don’t get me wrong, I know that there are people who are much worse off than me. Who have an incurable disease, who never get better or well, you name it. I know that. I realize that. And I also realize that it really could have turned out much worse. A little more to the side and I might have had a spinal cord injury or worse. That it could have happened just like that, I’m more than aware of that.
But the fact that other people have it worse is strangely enough not very comforting. Because you always compare it to your own situation. The before and after situation so to speak.
And yes, those two rotten ankles are playing tricks on me, but what I always forget to mention is that I also have a bruised rib and my knees (never the best) have also taken a big hit, so I will only find out about their condition in a month or so. I can feel that they hurt when I do my exercises.
And so I am fed up. And I am sad. Grief for the things I can’t do now. Sadness because I have to sit in that f-ing-bed all day, sadness because I also just feel self-pity now and then, and sadness because it’s already driving me crazy and I still have ten times as long to go. After all, I’ve only been home a week and the accident has only been twenty days ago. December 7, 2015… The day the future changed. And not in a positive way.