My family was supposed to go skiing this weekend. Well, actually, my family did go skiing this weekend -- I just didn't. I drove with them to a small, family resort-type place just outside of Pittsburgh (i.e., half the price of one of these fancy New England ski areas) and sat in the house. Technically I did not sit, since I can't, but you know. They all got up, got dressed, and went skiing without me. I read The Vampire Lestat. They came home, ruddy cheeked and exhausted. I made dinner (something to DO!) while they collapsed in front of the football game. I put the heating pad on my back, and five minutes later, every other person in my family was sleeping. The next day, repeat, only I was feeling much better, so I was able to go for a walk and meet them for
I've never really been injured before. I've never been the one who can't help pack the car, who needs help with even easy tasks, like picking socks up off the floor. I live life hard, drawing as much as I can out of every second I am awake. Being hurt, and having to rest, and ask for help, and stand on the sidelines, was much more difficult than I thought it would be. I wanted to participate so much that I almost asked if we could ski Monday so that I could go, even though that would have been totally stupid and I probably would be lying around in agony right now, instead of being able to sit up long enough to write this. Instead, I struggled to just let go, to let them have their fun and try to enjoy the fact that I could nap as many times as I wanted (three times on Saturday, thankyouverymuch) and have some time to myself to read and relax.
When I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, I tried to remember that at least for me, it is temporary. In a few weeks, it will be over and I will be back to my old self, skiing with the family.