On Turning 30, and Promptly Breaking a Leg
Something tells me I’m into something good…
A few weeks ago, I was pretty good at whining on social media about “getting old” and how it was “all downhill from here.” I’ll admit, most of my statements were fueled by a selfish desire for compliments, protests of “you’re not that old” and “the best is yet to come,” blah blah blah [Yep, I’m that much of a pathetic narcissist, sorry not sorry]. Every “like” and “love” and retweet tickled my ego, and I’m OK with it. Past that, however, I coupled sarcasm with a genuine anxiety, a flippant “whatever” reaction with a “umm, so what exactly HAVE I done with my life?” As I actually freaked out for a little while, my “public” “persona” [ugh] wasn’t going to give a honk about 30, as long as 30 wasn’t going to give a honk about me.
Then I broke my leg in three places.
I’ve never broken a limb. In fact, growing up, I had a perverse jealousy of those who ‘d broken limbs — the weeks off school, signed casts and universal pity parties seemed like an OK way to take a furlough from my junior high years.
So now I’m 30, and broken, and wondering what in all things good I was thinking when I was that age. Stupid, awkward, teenage Amy.
So here I am, holed up in bed for what promises to be an at least 6 week but likely longer healing process just to get to the point where I can put any weight on the leg. Not even taking into account full healing, physical therapy, etc. I haven’t even mustered the courage to ask my surgeon when I can cycle or run again. I imagine it isn’t a happy answer.
One of my best friends, Haley, is an ER doc in Boston. When my husband called before they decided to do surgery, she at first couldn’t give a definitive opinion. Ben sent her the X-ray above and she burst out laughing. “Yes,” she said. “Of course she’s going to need surgery. I’ve only seen breaks like that in motorcycle crashes.” A week later, she told me I need to get writing again.
So that’s what I’m going to do. From the ambulance, to emergency, to surgery, to brutal pain management, to digestive difficulties, to physical therapy, and beyond — these are my Ninety Healing Days.
My husband Ben says that, when I was so high on morphine in the ER that I must rely on his recollections to recount this, I turned to the attending ortho surgeon and asked him how it looked. He replied with an estimated healing time period.
“Bullshit,” I said, slurring my words and trying to maintain eye contact. “Tell it to me straight, doc,” I mumbled like a minor TV hospital victim.
I knew then, in a drug-fogged state, and I know now, that this isn’t going to get better fast. This isn’t something I can talk my way out of, as I am so apt to do. This isn’t a hangover to sleep off, or a shaving nick to dab up. This is a major break, a major injury, and I have a very difficult road ahead of me.
So #90healingdays it is. Because I like threes, and three months is a long time that goes quickly, and because saying “until it gets better” is vague, and I don’t do vague. I collapse under vague. I panic with vague. It will be longer than 90 days, but I can grasp 90 days. Three Months. One Quarter. I can’t do vague, but I can do 90.
So here we go.
