No More Training Wheels

Yesterday I took a photo of my elbow's xray so I could keep an image of what the esteemed surgeon had done to it six weeks ago.  It was an astonishing image:  a long plate around the end of the elbow affixed with 7 screws, I believe.  To look at it you might find it hard to imagine ever bending and moving that elbow again, but of course all that metal is there to facilitate bone healing.  The laconic surgeon, Dr. Kandemir (from Turkey) informed me that it was essentially "healed."  In other words, he saw no more evidence of fracture.  I peered at the picture, and concurred.  But all that metal!  I couldn't keep my eyes off  those brilliant lines in the xray....  New parts of my body.   We went on to talk about the future -- what I now needed to do to make limbs work normally -- and I realized that the doctor was releasing me to the care and wisdom of the physical therapists whose job it is to make me work hard, endure pain, and ultimately regain function.  Healing of bone had occurred in both elbow and leg/ankle, and now the body needs to be retrained.  My immediate response was fear.  Oh my god, this is going to hurt, I'm going to have a really hard time, I want there to be an easier way, etc., etc.  Sort of like what a young child might feel when told that he or she can actually ride that bike with two wheels ....  "you can do it ... yes! .... you can do it .... go for it ...."  We all have memories of that.  We've all stood at that threshold separating protection (training wheels) from the big wide world (motoring on two wheels)....
I've never been very good at physical feats, rarely trusted my body to do anything correctly, and so moving across that threshold is a tad harder for me, perhaps.  When the doctor said my boot could come off my leg, and there were no restrictions to my physical activities, I should have felt some sort of excitement, but instead sensed a little panic inside.  What will I do with the pain?  the fear?  How will I know when I've done too much - gone too far?   Obviously the time has come to remember to trust, and to know that I can take care of myself.  Have faith in the body's phenomenal power to heal, and in my heart which knows I can tend to myself.  
I have been doing just that for quite some time now, without supervision from those related to me.  My mindfulness practice has shown me my inner wisdom and I have finally paid attention!


I have a plan, I think, to begin to tell stories in a different way, without benefit of the computer's keyboard.  I ordered a recording device, and I hope to speak into this.  The more I look back at my life - and there has been a lot of that lately during this recovery - the more I know I want (need?) to tell some stories that lurk in the memory web.  I want to bring some people who have informed and delighted me to the forefront, so that others may see them and like them too.  The free associating mind I seem to be endowed with can spin out stories, I suspect, once I get started reflecting on someone, like my mother, my grandmother, my very eccentric stepfather ...  It will be good not to look into a computer screen at the words popping up, and popping up ungracefully or inarticulately, causing that fatal pause in the narrative stream, and stifling the true voice which holds us spellbound.   So, without too many expectations, I will do this.  It will make me feel useful, much the way I feel useful when I practice the piano, create a great necklace, or knit a beautiful scarf.  Those will come also, but for now they feel daunting physically.  Who knows  -  it is likely they are entirely compatible with the doctor's wishes for me to continually push myself.  One of these days I'll park myself at the piano and revisit my dear JS Bach, and see just how my hands/arms/whole body do with the challenge!


A lot came up for me as I finished A Widow for One Year by Irving, the narrative of a woman who struggled with the loss of a mother, defining herself as a creative being (a writer), and discovering the nature of love with a man.  I was particularly touched by her willingness to allow love for the woman who abandoned her.  That and her commitment to writing.  These are familiar pieces for me indeed.  It's a sprawling, yet well composed novel, and when you reach the end, you feel just a bit of loss as you say goodbye to that manufactured world, and thank the writer who gave it to you.  My heart goes out to those who give their life blood to writing so that I may be enchanted and inspired!  Question is:  can I perform that kind of enchantment for myself?