I have been inside this house for 17 days now after having surgery to repair the posterior tibial tendon on my left foot. That's 17 days of crawling up and down the stairs (only once each way per day, thankyouverymuch), foot encased in a bulky splint. It's 17 days of keeping my toes elevated above my nose, of using various mobility aids, of depending on Mike and the boys to help me with everything. I haven't been this helpless since I was a literal infant. To say that this feeling is uncomfortable for me is a vast understatement.
From my power lift recliner, I've watched the days pass by, at first in a pain- and medication-induced fog but lately in sharper focus — my birthday, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year's Eve, and now New Year's Day. In two more days, I'll venture out of the house for the first time, with Liam's help, to see my doctor for a follow-up visit and to get a cast. I'm 48, and I've never had a cast before. It was a good run. I'll spend roughly six weeks in the cast, followed by six more weeks in a walking boot, followed by weeks of physical therapy and months of continued recovery.
Which brings me to my theme for this year: recovery.
Usually when I think of the new year, like we're all conditioned to, I think about what I want to accomplish. I think of trips I want to take and improvements I want to make around the house. I think of rooms I'd like to paint and plants I'd like (Mike) to grow and things we can do with the boys. This year I should also be thinking of visiting Liam at school, and of starting the college visit process with Max. But all of that is up in the air because I don't know when I'll walk again, or how well, or what my stamina will look like, or just generally what I'll be physically capable of doing.
I am a person who functions best with something to look forward to, and right now, nothing is concrete. So for this year, I'm going to try my best to focus simply on recovery. I might have to adjust what that means to me throughout the year. Right now, it means sitting with my foot up and letting other people take care of all the things that have been my responsibility for years. It means letting go, at least temporarily, of my expectations of myself, and letting other people have the control. I hope that in a couple of months, recovery will mean taking my first baby steps without the boot, then going for a walk most days, then riding my bike again. I hope it will mean getting a new bike. I still hope there will be some travel this year. I still hope there will be projects around the house, even if they don't materialize until fall or even winter.
And my plans for recovery this year have to have another, even more nebulous side. I want to recover my time. I've been trying with limited success for months to cut back on the extra work I take on. This year, I want to find the balance between making enough money and still having the time and energy to do things that bring me happiness. I want to recover writing as a thing I love rather than only producing words when someone else pays me to. I want to remind myself why I love taking pictures, watching birds, building Legos, and sitting outside by the fire. I want more time with Mike, with the boys, with my parents and my siblings and my nieces and nephews and all the other important people in my life. Always more time.
So there you have it: as close to a resolution as I'll get. Here we go.
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