I’ve navigated some shit without too much self-pity, right? I mean, since this time last year, we’ve lost a baby we mothered through his first month of life, my father, our beloved boy-cat, and Love Child, and I was decently gracious about the whole thing. I found bright sides. I felt gratitude. I am not one to wallow.
But I broke bone(s) in my foot yesterday, and that is it. The straw. I have been launched firmly into a bog of self-pity, and though I don’t enjoy the view, I’m not sure how to get out.
I fell carrying Bram down the stairs, and so as to keep him safe, I sort of closed my body around his and landed in a crumpled heap on my foot at the bottom. The pain was searing. I screamed. I scared our son, but I couldn’t not scream. They confirmed a Lisfranc fracture at the ER last night. I’ll know more after an ortho visit this week.
What I already know is that it’s not the walk.on.it kind of break. It’s the crutches, cast, going up stairs backwards like a crab kind. It’s the hope the ortho gets me in quickly and doesn’t suggest surgery kind. And that, it feels right now, is the rest of my summer. No long family walks. No wearing the boy through the crowd at the farmers market. No trips to Chicago, no taking Bram on his bike up and down our street by myself, or to the playground, or to the library, even, because how will I get him out of the car and into the kid’s room on crutches? No even carrying my son upstairs, or downstairs, or out to the car. No daily dance parties. No going down the basement stairs, which leaves my wife to do all of the laundry (along with everything else). I don’t even know how to safely be alone with B. I missed a party with my family today. J took B. He rode a golf cart, which was, of course, amazing. I wallowed.
Because instead of reveling in the laid back sweetness of summer, there’s this hot thing on my leg suffocating me. It’s a boot now, but it will be a cast, and I feel extreme panic at the idea of having something on there that I can’t take off. Extreme panic. Seriously. And the boot upsets B, as do the crutches, so that he’s keeping some distance from me. Which is pretty much crushing my very soul. My very soul.
I feel robbed. I keep thinking that all of the mistakes of my twenties must have brought this unlucky streak about because, I mean, come on already! And I get that people have it worse. I mean, when you live in a world where there was a Holocaust, there’s always room for perspective. And I get that we have each other. And Bramble. And an incredible support system (though one stops feeling like one can ask for help by the fifth family crisis of the year. It gets ridiculous.). I know it’s probably just six to eight weeks, and that we’ll get through it.
But fuck. I am fucking sick of having to get through things.
I wait for July and August all year long. For J’s downtime at work. And now I feel trapped, and in pain (because I won’t take the pain meds because I refuse to be any more useless to our boy than I already am), and more frustrated than I ever remember being. So okay already, universe. What can I do to make you lay the fuck off?