This is about my neck. And every thing really. But last night my neck got angry.
Ten years ago, I sustained a life altering injury to my neck and shoulders when two cases of produce fell off the top shelf of the walk-in and got me like a guillotine.
My healing and recovery have been miraculous— long going but I regained more than they thought possible. But every now and then the damage makes itself known. Like right now.
So it’s Salon Pas and the massage drill and my TENS unit and heat and stretching. It’s anti-inflammatories and cancelled appointments and trying to get seen. And it’s amazing how fast the adjustments click in.
I’d almost forgotten about keeping dishes on the counter instead of the cabinets so I can access them.
Picking things up with my left side only. Tilting the milk down instead of lifting the jug. Calculating my route so I don’t have to shift, stop, or turn as often.
Momming is the hardest part. I try to explain the injury but it was before she was born and it is invisible. No band aid or blood, nothing to indicate to a kindergartner than her usually robust mother is out of service.
But we do it. We manage. Then she playfully climbs on me and I shriek in pain and fear. And she cries and I cry and I apologize and try to explain.
The progress is still there even if today it feels erased. Because I could sleep last night and I remember when I couldn’t. I remember when 40 minutes in one position was all I could take.
I remember the haze of painkillers and how they didn’t kill the pain but just made me care less about it.
I remember the fear that nothing would change and my anger and despair.
I remember when recovery was my full time job. Therapies and adjustments and trainings and dietary changes. The itchiness and awfulness of getting off those pills. The ease with which the doctors offered them to me again and again and again. My determination to never have to get off them again. And I remember the day I left acupuncture and could finally turn my head. I remember my resilience and my strength.
And I get out my foam roller and get back into my healing. And though it sounds cliche, I am grateful for my capacity to heal and to remember.
I remember where I’ve been, I remember that I won’t stay here forever. That it may feel like defeat but it’s part of my progress.
I try to release my anger at myself and the medical team. I know it doesn’t serve me to play the injustices on repeat. I try to release my self-judgment and self-loathing for failing to advocate for myself. For not demanding an ER visit and imaging. For waiting. For “being good” and “not causing trouble” and possibly prolonging the pain by refusing to admit it. By internalizing it and letting the men brush me off.
I remind myself that those lessons came at a dear cost but I cannot let the cost erase the lesson, for THAT would truly be a shame. I remind myself that I have learned how to advocate for treatment and I share that hard-earned knowledge. I know how to take care of myself if I remember TO take care. And when I don’t remember? My body reminds me.
And my child is witnessing that a disability can live in any body. That strength and damage can coexist. That one day I may run three miles and the next day I have to tilt the milk. And both days I am worthy and complete.
One day, if I’m lucky, I will be a very old woman with aches and gnarled joints and dry feet and cold hands.
So today I stretch and moisturize and cozy up and take care. I hope you can take care too.
Pretty Good Ugly 