One Week Ago Today (last night's dinner disaster averted)

It's been a week ago today that I broke my ankle. Last night it hit me. I was a puddle of tears, in pain and in bed by six--unable to move. I don't feel sorry for myself. And I really don't want to turn this blog into some medical confessional--that really wasn't why I started this in the first place. And how I am dealing with this is not how you or someone you know might deal with broken bones/changed life (however temporary it may be--it's still quite a blow when you've reached fifty and your own vulnerability is staring you right smack in the face owing to some stupid misfortune). Medical professionals will guide me through the ups and downs of my physical recovery. It's the mental part that has started worrying me. My sharing in this space is hopefully going to help me and maybe someone else going through the same thing. This whole "hard stop" is different. Breaking my ankle has literally knocked me out of life as I've known it and it's a BIG effing deal.

I thought emotionally, I might be able to wait out the inevitable: depression, anxiety, on-again/off-again crying spells--that is to be expected, I'm strong, I've faced worse. But I felt a slip of sorts in my heart yesterday afternoon--a sort of letting go--I knew it was time to call someone I've known for fifteen years, someone with professional license to help.  

I told her, through tears, of my latest setback. I said I'd not been prepared for this in any way. She said, who would be? She has had my back, been in my corner through thick and thin--there have been SO many life hurdles she's helped me through, each time watching me bounce back with more strength and perseverance than the last, she knows of what I am made even though there are times I don't. Everyone should be so lucky to have someone like her. 

I told her I was afraid not of the pain in my ankle--but of the pain this was having on me mentally. These are the darkest days of the year now, the holidays no less (never my favorite time by a long shot) and for years I've relied on my running to get me through all the fa-la-la-la crap. Usually I'm running twenty miles a week now. . . at least. When I broke my ankle last week, I was in the middle of training for a race on Thanksgiving Day. I felt on top of the world physically. My time kept improving each weekend. I'd have little celebrations with my husband. He'd cheer me on. (After turning fifty, I knew this would push me into a new age bracket with my fifty-year old self at the bottom of the race medal age category--surely I could bring home a first place or even third place medal now. A very selfish motivation, I know). But still.

What I heard from my friend is that all of this is completely normal in the scope of having an unexpected trauma like this. The stress levels are high. A good night's sleep is hard to come by (which it has been) thus reducing my ability to handle the day-to-day dramas unfolding as I heal. Like moving things from point A to point B--even a few feet in one direction or another and it's like I'm undertaking the world's most complicated feat--a tightrope walk. And may I state again what a complete primitive and absolute pain in the ass crutches are? WHY hasn't anyone invented something better--less archaic? I mean we send people to the moon for crying out loud? Crutches? Really? 

I've researched a gazillion ways to cope. I'm sure the Google Engine is like, Alright already with the Broken Ankle research, try not focusing on this sooo MUCH! Alternative methods of getting around on broken bones abound in cyberspace. There's this one thing that allows you to rest one leg on pads and scoot around on wheels. Even that seemed ridiculous--then we're talking a whole other set of problems down the road--knee pain. 

Yesterday I tried to take on waaay more than I should have. Sitting still has always been difficult for me. I am the busiest homemaker I know. Constant movement. Things to do. Places to go, blah, blah, blah. And now to top it all off, my concentration levels are at rock bottom. No knitting, no reading. My friend told me all this has to shake itself out before I can tackle those things again. It might be a few weeks before those concentration levels return. Focus on the little things first, like moving one foot in front of the other, mastering the crutches, etc. (Arghhh those crutches!) 

It was my first day alone and I wanted to have everything appear as normal as possible. Until dinner came around and I had planned to make a mushroom lasagna, and looked in the fridge and there were no mushrooms. What the?! I ALWAYS have mushrooms on hand, we love mushrooms, we were just at the store, HOW could I not have mushrooms in this HOUSE dammit? And then, the water works started.

 I had to stick with the plan of the lasagna because by this point--I had pulled ALL my other veggies out, my cutting board was in front of me, I was sauteing onions and garlic, my foot was resting on another chair placed just so, so that I could maneuver my upper body to chop more, stir, wipe and move on through the cooking process--all without the main ingredient for the dinner. 

I managed somehow to piece together what I could, adding a bit of umami flavor with a dash of some bagged frozen mushroom stems (don't ever count on them for the full mushroom flavor--there's something not right about frozen mushrooms and I frankly can't remember why I even bought them). Anyway, I finally got my attempt at not-quite-mushroom-lasagna into the oven, crawled into bed and awaited Dr. Thyme's return home. Which is where he found me when he walked in the door. Pathetic. Yes.  

I was certain the meal was going to be a disaster. (No problem for me because I am seriously cutting back my caloric intake while in "this state". God help me if I get out of this boot and I've gained ten pounds. That is NOT an option.) When DH finally walked through the door, it was such a relief and comfort. Seeing him, I could feel my physical stress levels coming down. Too exhausted to move much more, I remained in bed as he pulled the dinner out of the oven and served us both on our bed tray--pillows supporting my foot. 

Then he said, Wow, this is good--what's in it? I'm like, NOT mushrooms--pouty-faced and all. Then proceeded to tell him my dilemma. To which he replied, Even when you can't cook, you're an amazing cook. This is delicious. Then I took a bite and. . . and finally I managed a smile, too. It was, remarkably, quite edible. A triumph for the day. My lasagna.