Posts Tagged ‘broken bones’
These past few days I have been dancing, twirling, walking, celebrating that I am finally physically back to where I was before the accident last summer. Almost. I had the cast removed on the twenty-seventh of February, nine months and three days after all hell brook loose last summer, and, aside from the disturbing side-realization that I could have had a baby in this time, I have realized that the accident might have midwifed a transition to an even better epoch in my life. It forced me to realize that I couldn’t continue to live where I was living, as it wasn’t suited for someone with my needs*, and it also forced me to have a surgery that was bound to take place sooner or later. Rather sooner than later.
I am not saying that I am happy that it happened, because it was absolutely heartbreaking when it happened, and continued to be heartbreaking for a long, long time. I don’t believe it happened for any particular reason other than here is a person who is suffering from epilepsy and she had a seizure at a very inconvenient time, which caused her to get very badly hurt — and that’s it. It’s biology, it’s chemistry, it wasn’t a punishment. It wasn’t a lesson to teach me anything. The circumstances thereafter were just so that I was able to take advantage of it (a long time after it happened), and to let it push me in a better direction for me. I turned the tragedy into something I could use. After many, many, many months of being horribly upset.
But I am really happy about where I am now. I am happy that I am on my way.
*= The rare disease that causes my bones to keep breaking.
Today is my last sick day. I don’t care how I am feeling tomorrow; I will not miss another day of school. And that’s a promise. I know I have just had surgery, but I need to get back on that Spanish horse again or else I won’t be able to keep up. If that means I have to sit in a wheelchair with my leg on beer crate, then that is what I will do.
I can’t say I am looking forward to it, though.
I was released from the hospital yesterday, after having been there for a week. Seven days was the perfect amount of days for me. It gave me enough time to practice walking on my cast and walking on stairs. I am not feeling great yet — I am still on morphine, and have had a fever for a few days. But I proud of myself for going through with this, and for knowing what is right for me. The shin in my right leg is now a little metal plate richer, and I am having the big giant cast removed in 5 weeks.
My last night in the hospital:
I am back to living with my grandparents, and will do so until I am fully recovered (until I can take care of myself). I have spent a lot of my time in the hospital buying used furniture for my new apartment, which means that my new apartment is almost fully furnished and waiting for me. I CAN’T WAIT. I can’t wait to reclaim my life and my independence. I can’t wait to start a new. Life is going to be so much better.
My next post will be about my roommate while I was in the hospital, Sonja, who was in her 80′s and an incurable drama queen. Every moment with her was like the third act of an opera.
Three (drug-hazed) days post-surgery. My roommate is an elderly woman who had her hip replaced two days ago. We have gone from having the curtain be closed all the time to only keeping it closed at night. The drugs give me zero appetite, but these last seven months of involuntary inactivity has made me pack on enough pounds to last me through a couple of hard winters. Or surgeries.
Expected release day is either Monday or Tuesday.
I’m on the top floor, which means that I wake up and fall asleep to the most gorgeous view. The green building in the last photograph is a part of the apartment complex that is my new home. My building, which has less floors, is hiding somewhere behind it.
School started, and I am in my third week.
It’s a lot more exhausting than originally anticipated.
Me llamo Sofie. Estudio españiol y psicologia.
No. No hablo español.
I am still living with my grandparents.
I have made their guestroom my own.
I know every sound, noise and shadow of this place.
I know where the floor shrieks. I am careful not to walk there when they are asleep.
The part of the hip bone that is broken has moved. I was told a little over a week ago. Then I went to school and learned about reflexive pronouns.
Overall, I would say nothing much has changed.
Some nights ago I spent some time browsing through the obscene stream of photos that are currently hogging up all the space on my phone. Some of them I don’t remember taking, like the ones taken in the days following the accident. I just don’t remember. I have been told that epileptic seizures do not lead to memory loss unless you have had hundreds of them. I have had 4 in total. Nevertheless, I feel, and has felt this every single time, that my short-time memory has been affected In some way. Things don’t stick, and days gone by become blurry. All of this could probably be entirely blamed on the shock of the experience, and be viewed as my subconsciousness trying to put the pieces back together in my head in order to make the puzzle fit. Any additional noise on the airwaves might be unnecessary at this point.
Once the hospital had me take a test, where I was strapped to a gurney, which was then put upright. The nurse put a tablet of nitroglycerin underneath my tongue, and did some additional thing which I don’t remember. I never understood the point of the test, only that it had something to do with understanding the cause of my epilepsy. The nurse spent the whole duration of the test with her back turned towards me, observing the reactions of my brain, heart, pulse, etc, as they were happening. After sticking it out for thirty minutes, counting every second of every minute, experiencing the worst bouts of dizziness, heat-flashes, nausea, cold-sweats, etc, I finally told her that I couldn’t handle it anymore. I was going to pass out. She put the gurney down and gave me a glass of lemonade, which I sipped while she waved me with a pamphlet. I was pale as a ghost, and felt totally betrayed that nobody had told me how nauseatingly awful this would be. She brought my mother in, and together we got the results of the exam. “The aim was to get you to pass out”, she said, “To see exactly what happens in your brain when you do”. Well, that was sure news to me. She then continued, “You were too strong, though. Your body really fought for you.” When she said that, I felt proud. Proud to have such a strong army of organisms working in my favor, keeping up their end of the deal.
After the accident (I accidentally wrote “innocent” — freudian slip?) , the word that came to mind constantly when trying to explain how I was feeling was “disconnect”. It’s splattered all over my journal, like word vomit. DISCONNECT DISCONNECT DISCONNECT. I have felt, and still feel completely disconnected from my body. I am so angry with it that if I could I would make it sleep on the couch. On top of that, I feel like I am living inside a bubble, looking out at everybody else.
I cry several times a day.
Today I tried to sort out of my future… I know which university I want to attend next year, and I know what I want to major in. I also know that I would want to participate in the exchange student program, with an American university being my preference. But, what does all of this matter, when the word “want” is not connected to any sort of emotion for me? Logically, I would want it. I know the old Sofie would. Emotionally, I am completely apathetic. It doesn’t get me excited. When doing this, I feel like I am planning somebody else’s life.
I am writing all of this here, because I can’t say it out loud. I don’t think I am very good at hiding it, though.
I am back in the summerhouse, and I can finally say with no exaggeration that the weather is nothing less than LOVELY. When the sun finally decides to pay us a visit, the Danish summers are difficult to compete with. There is absolutely no need to go anywhere else, weather- and temperature-wise. What a privilege it is to be able to spend all day lounging around in a lawn chair with turning the pages of the book you are reading being the only strain.
I may have mentioned this before, but I have officially no longer on any sort of pain killers. I felt one morning that I no longer needed them, and have been just fine ever since. My hip is no longer in pain, except for the few times where I accidently flex the muscles surrounding that area. That hurts. Mentally, I am also on the right track. Last night, 12:30am, was the “anniversary” of the accident. That’s what I refer to it as, both in English and in Danish. I cannot believe it’s been a month. I also can’t believe how much I have changed in that month. There has been so much internal processing and inward-looking that I am positive I will never be the same again. As a person, I am no better or worse, just different.
Yesterday, when we were driving to the summerhouse, my grandmother asked me how I felt this whole thing had affected me, as far as mentality goes. At least I think that is what she asked me. It is horrible, but I think I remember my own process of reflecting better than the question itself. All I know is that I told her that I no longer believed in fate. I no longer believe that I have been singled out as the carrier of all of these diseases because I can carry this amount of weight on my shoulders. Throughout my life, I have always believed that the consequences of my chronic illnesses would at one point come to a halt. That someone would say, enough is enough, we are going to give her a break and let all the shit she has going on already become status quo. I am not a religious, and yet I talk as if I was once a believer. I guess I was a believer. I must have believed in something, or else it wouldn’t be possible for my illusions to have become shattered. Whatever beliefs I had smoldered between my fingers that night.
All of this sounds awfully depressing, but I feel more clear-sighted than ever. The thing is, I am actually able to accept this change within myself. I feel strongly that it is here to stay, and while twenty-three is a little young to become such a
bitter old woman realist, it is actually liberating. It has led to me buying 200 dollars worth of clothing as a way of dressing this new person (don’t worry, I could afford it). I bought her a pair of sunglasses and a new bag, cardigans, shirts; all stuff that I have never permitted the old person, old me, to enjoy. The old me has waited for a day where all the pieces would fit together; where I had the right body, dress-size, and life to be able to a person worth investing in. Isn’t that horrible and masochistic? The new me realizes that if you put shit in one hand and wishes in the other hand, shit will fill up faster, and I just need to live in the moment and dress for the occasion.
Needless to say, it helps to write about it. All of this might read as insane nonsense, and that is okay. I accept that, too. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a lawn chair and a book waiting for me. Toodles!