Day 70 was a sad(ish) day. I got into a tif of sorts with the boy toy before going to my fourth doctor's appointment in two weeks. I wasn't really worked up about the appointment (I gave up worrying for lent...remember?), but the spat put me into a weird mindset. "Oh well," I thought. "15 minutes from now this apointment will be over, they'll write me up a new prescription, tell me to ice it and I'll be on my way."
False.
The verdict? Surgery. The doctor on Wednesday told me he didn't think surgery would be necessary, but said he wanted to send me to a knee specialist "just to be sure." Well that knee specialist apparently saw something that Doctor #1 and Doctor #2 didn't see. He saw a need to operate (and some unidentifiable black blob where my meniscus was). After that, I really didn't hear much. I remember staring at the doctor and seeing his lips move. I remember twirling the cheap-o hospital shorts between my fingers...wondering when I could put my pants back on and run as far away from this man's scalpel as possible. I remember trying to nod in all the right places, and fill the pauses...and thinking just don't cry.
Next thing you know, he was shaking my hand, handing me a card with a number and a name scrawled on it so I could set up the surgery, and walking out the door...and there I was, sitting in an exam room, shoulders hunched, tears dripping onto those stupid hospital shorts, with an inability to move...and no desire to face the day. Wuss.
I act tough, but I'm not. I can bite my bottom lip, hold back my tears and deny my pain with the best of them when I'm around people...but in the moments between, I'm a giant baby. I used to put bandaids on paper cuts as a kid, and am pretty certain I own just about every kind of brace or bandage that money can buy (I may or may not have been a bit of an attention seeker as a chlid).
Surgery is pretty much out of the question. It terrifies me. The concept of not being in control is...well, a vulnerability that I'm not comfortable with. And the thought that I could "go to sleep" so to speak, and wake up missing a limb, isn't a concept I'm comfortable with either. It's an outpatient surgery...I should be fine. My dad likes to tell me that professional athletes get this same surgery done, and are back on the field the next day. But I'm no professional athlete, remember? (though I did continue to train on a torn meniscus for Lord knows how long...that makes me tough, right? Or just stupid...ha).
I texted Jonny on the way to the car, and then sobbed like a baby to my mom on the way into work. I pulled it together with just enough time to walk in through the front doors, and the moment the receptionist asked me how the apppointment went...I broke into tears (again). And then...something that surprised me...little by little one sales person after the other came to the front desk and gave me a hug, wiped my tears, offered me rides and phone numbers, and told me I was going to be alright. Such small actions with such a profound impact. Because a hug is exactly what I needed, wiping the tear from my face is something my mother or Jonny would have done to make me feel better, and knowing that co-workers in a different department (who are closer to strangers than family) would reach out to me like that...and offer to drive me to my doctor's appointments or let my dog out for me or take out the trash, means more to me than they know. And it was just enough to help me forget that in a few weeks my leg would be ceviche on an operating table.
They reached for my hand and touched my heart.
And I'm thankful for that.
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