Shut up and race Danica … or stop with the pity party
I felt sorry for myself this morning. But I only allowed myself a short pity party.
The thought of the folks injured at the Boston Marathon has really bothered me. I think about what so many of their journeys will be, being amputees. Being a mother, a wife; now not being “whole” in their minds.
I think about how far prosthetic advances have come, but only if you have the time and the energy, the assertiveness to battle with insurance companies to get the treatment you need. The money to travel to the best hospitals, while not being able to work. That lots of people don’t have the advocates that some people do – I mean how can you deal with all this crap when you are in pain, on meds and in shock? No matter how advanced medicine has come, it is going to be a long and really, really shitty, emotional and psychological road for these folks.
And no matter what Obama says, he’s not going to pick up the phone and get lost in the insurance companies’ automated system to make sure those claims are handled promptly; he’s not going to be writing a check to pay for people’s mortgages when they can’t work. He’s not even going to have his assistant do that.
I think of all the veterans that return home each year that don’t get the public’s attention or support for their similar losses. They won’t get a settlement that will ease some of the strain.
Almost three weeks ago, I thought I tore something in my leg – it hurt like a mother. So
much so I went to urgent care. The x-ray didn’t show a break, uh, that lump, I think it is fatty tissue on your thigh, the sonogram showed no clots, here’s some Percocet, go to your doctor during the week.
The worst thing? My husband had to help me hoist my butt into our truck; he was worried – it scared me. It reminded me of when my ankylosing spondilitis was so bad I couldn’t walk or sit, I wasn’t “whole” in my mind. Who wanted to have a wife that couldn’t ski, walk in Home Depot or have sex without hurting?
This morning is my first day back to the dojo. I have this weird thought that I’m going to kick too hard and that my leg might dislocate and hang loose and never be reattached again. So I take it easy and keep my kicks to a lazy girls height which makes me nuts as I like to kick high and kick hard at my imaginary attacker. Okay since I’m being honest, I am one of the oldest gals in class and hate when people use age as an excuse for not being able to do things.
One of the gals in class, when she asked me what happened and I said, “I really dunno” she said, “Sometimes it is just our age.” FRICK.
Stop whining and get on with it. Shut up and race Danica.
I think my good friend Arsinoe would say that if I want to feel sorry for myself, if I want to acknowledge my fear, if I want to say, “This sucks,” then that’s okay, it is my reality. I don’t always have to discount how I’m feeling as it isn’t as bad as what someone else is going through. She’s a lot kinder than I am to myself .
But who am I to feel scared, to feel sorry for myself, when I CAN do jumping jacks and jabs and hooks? I’ll just be kicking my attackers balls and not at his face for a while.