I am NOT Supergirl
It's an ungodly hour, yet I'm still awake, with, apparently, nothing to do. The shoulder pain has finally subsided. I had my first day out, you see, apart from hospital visits and work. A trip to my favourite restaurant, and shopping at the craft market. My friends and mother have been most obliging in pushing me along in a rented wheelchair. I think I made about 5 full rotations of the wheels myself, hence the shoulder pain. I had injections too, and the pain in the left shoulder was alleviated, but the right dug its bone spur in, "I've not been bullied into submission for 20 years, and do not intend to be now!", it seems say.
Shoulder? - What's she on about? This is KNEEguru for goodness sake, not Shoulder Shaman! Well, it's because of the crutches, you see. All that time in bed with nothing to do but eat, without thinking about the implications. "Eat. You're suffering. Your body needs all the nutrition it can get," my friends reassured me. While still in hospital the nurses brought in a big contraption the one morning, unfolded it, voila, to reveal a whale scale. On this they lifted me up, and matter of factly reported that my weight is 87kg. 87KGs?! Oh yeah, the hardware, remember? Surely 2 plates and 11 screws can make up the 17kg surplus. Well, I've been trying to heave my new bulkier frame around on crutches, but my shoulders protested.
Before my accident, I would watch shows like Rescue 911 or read Reader's Digest articles on real life dramas, and I would admire victims for their tenacity to survive, and fight back to full, miraculous recoveries. I always knew I was just like them. If ever I would break every bone in my body, I would show the world. I would fight back. I would show the rarest of determinations to overcome my injuries in a record time. People would stand inspired by my story. That was until September first when that ... I want to say something here, but suspect I will be kicked off of the site...woman jaywalked. The moment I hit the asphalt, I let fly with the most horrifying of screams. I didn't stop until they injected me twice in hospital with some or other balm of Gilead. Since then I not only had to struggle with the pain, but also with the personal disappointment of being an absolute, total cream puff.
Then started physio. I made some initial progress, and then, for some reason had decreased range of motion. I have a new PT now, formerly from Guatanamo, who, within two sessions, managed to torture my leg into a whole new range of motion. Finally, I'm making headway! Among a people where 'face' is of utmost importance, and making a scene is the most unheard of thing, I stand out like a sore thumb with my squealing and whimpering there at the rehab gym. I'm sure that when they had to select a new PT for me they played Paper-Scissors-Stone, and the loser got me! People have started to cringe away from the foreigner with no inkling of decorum.
I have to say that this experience has not, and is not, making me stronger; or a better person; neither is it a learning curve for life experience; or some special stumbling block to bring me closer to god. It absolutely, unequivocally (Dr Phil's two favourite words) sucks.