(no subject)
I tore my MCL up in Seattle two weeks ago. It wasn't till this afternoon that I did the math - I get one month of rugby this year. I broke my arm in late march, got cleared for contact September 1st, and fucked up my knee September 27th.
Two weeks in, and I have been too busy smiling and saying "no, really, I'm fine, I'm just so happy I don't need surgery" to complain about how much hobbling around on crutches fucking sucks. It sucks. I am tired. I am half useless. Aside from making petit fours for my birthday last week (in retrospect, this was probably a terrible idea, but I am stubborn and believe the "if you want something done right" adage applies doubly to birthday cake) I have completely given up on cooking. I have been googling recovery times, and half the internet says "6-8 weeks" and the other half is full of stories of people who still aren't recovered after 6 months.
The building attendant at work calls me a trooper every time I crutch by. I am fairly certain he is not making fun of me, but I am still somewhat bewildered. What other option do I have? When I broke my arm, everyone asked if I was going to go back to playing. No one is asking this time. I don't know if they assume the answer is naturally no, or if they assume I am beyond reason. Again, though: what other option do I have? That one month, those six games - they were sweet. Tackling is life-affirming. My ability to compute the risk vs reward equation is potentially broken. A patron shared with me that he'd had six knee surgeries - he does motorcycle racing. Six knee surgeries! Six! There might be a lesson in here somewhere about dangerous activities, about human frailty, about how contrary to personal belief I am not in fact invincible. I am ignoring that lesson and instead concentrating on my desire to be back on the pitch for the Champagne Classic in March.
Two weeks in, and I have been too busy smiling and saying "no, really, I'm fine, I'm just so happy I don't need surgery" to complain about how much hobbling around on crutches fucking sucks. It sucks. I am tired. I am half useless. Aside from making petit fours for my birthday last week (in retrospect, this was probably a terrible idea, but I am stubborn and believe the "if you want something done right" adage applies doubly to birthday cake) I have completely given up on cooking. I have been googling recovery times, and half the internet says "6-8 weeks" and the other half is full of stories of people who still aren't recovered after 6 months.
The building attendant at work calls me a trooper every time I crutch by. I am fairly certain he is not making fun of me, but I am still somewhat bewildered. What other option do I have? When I broke my arm, everyone asked if I was going to go back to playing. No one is asking this time. I don't know if they assume the answer is naturally no, or if they assume I am beyond reason. Again, though: what other option do I have? That one month, those six games - they were sweet. Tackling is life-affirming. My ability to compute the risk vs reward equation is potentially broken. A patron shared with me that he'd had six knee surgeries - he does motorcycle racing. Six knee surgeries! Six! There might be a lesson in here somewhere about dangerous activities, about human frailty, about how contrary to personal belief I am not in fact invincible. I am ignoring that lesson and instead concentrating on my desire to be back on the pitch for the Champagne Classic in March.