Recovery is still, as always, a work-in-progress, seemingly ad infinitum at that. If I had any doubt, if I imagined that I was in the final stretches of my healing journey, the past couple of weeks have shaken me – sometimes quite literally – up and straight out of that reverie.
Hello again, goes the sharp tingle, as it razzmatazzes up and down my left arm.
No way am I done with you, shrieks my pubic bone.
Not a chance, cramps the back of my half-slumbering left leg.
Anchor still firmly wedged into backside, roars my sacrum.
Oh, the chorus of unwanteds, my body’s caste of undesirables.
Daring to wish that my ever-present pain-conductors pack it all in and beat a hasty retreat into the past; cut the sting off my daily living; and hand me back my higher-functioning body.
Where to find now, the comfort of cooling my sweaty feet on freshly-washed floor tiles – when thinly-padded skin precludes barefooting of any kind, for (almost) any reason, at all? How to find a still-elusive natural gait, without vesting focus and intention in every step, body erect, correcting the subtle limp that a shortened leg has bequeathed?
Thoughts that remain deeply embedded, rarely-spoken dream-bits: Legs that sweep along in balanced rhythm; a left foot that touches smooth silky sand rather than sharp, craggy patches jutting upwards each step of the way; a sacrum that undulates with the movement of my limbs, rather than with the stiffness and weight of molten lead.
The ebb and flow of healing. More to come.