I tried to put on a backpack.
Yes, yes, I know. I KNOW.
That was not smart. But we could almost see a stupid move like that coming, couldn’t we? Even with all of my fear-nots and promises of gentleness, there was bound to be something ridiculous and beyond the bounds of reason thrown in early on.
So, yes. I tried to put on a back pack yesterday morning and it hurt so bad. Scared me bad. Froze me and turned me silent bad.
I stood there for a moment, the electric current running white hot from the incision in my back down to my ice cold foot until my brain turned back on and I dropped the pack onto the floor. All the power in my rehab, crushed on day one.
I scrambled to find another solution but the babysitter was here, the sand was pouring rapidly through the hourglass, and I couldn’t risk losing #powerrehab and my sanity saving kid-free time. I loaded my bag into the car and drove the half mile to the coffee shop, defeated. I sat in my sunny window seat, notebooks spread out in front of me, but I couldn’t focus.
I was agitated, angry, sad. I tried to write, tried to paint, tried to talk to my best friend and decide if I should use an empty stroller to push my bag to the coffee shop, beginning my career as the neighborhood eccentric a few years earlier than I had originally planned.
I pulled out my exquisitely planned #powerrehab training log, and fondled the sparkling golden stars. I may need to discuss this with my psychiatrist at our med check tomorrow, but the Rocky IV soundtrack began to swell in my head, and I marched my half drunk decaf Americano to the bus tub, loaded up my eighty thousand pounds of gear and marched out the door.
I parked two houses down from my house so my kids wouldn’t see me, left all my stuff in the car, and gingerly, but triumphantly, marched myself to the damn coffee shop and back, like a CHAMPION. GOLD STAR FOR ME.