Impatient

At least three people this week have expressed surprise that I am not back to "normal" yet. "When are you going to be better?" "Hasn't it been too long?" "Does your back still hurt?"

Yes, it has been a long time. Almost 13 weeks by my count. Longer than I imagined; certainly longer than I would've liked. I feel the disappointment, too. Mostly because I'm doing so much better and have come so far from that first completely immobile 24+ hours and then weeks in bed and literally months not sitting or driving or going much of anywhere. But I'm not doing it all yet. I could give you a long list of what I'm not doing, from sneezing without fear to bathing (I hate showering but what can I do?) to any kind of crafting (which means storebought for all, not as many cookies to bake, and a delayed homemade present for Cousin Hungry), but I really am trying not to dwell. I'm doing the best I can; as a family, we're coping and doing what we need to get through (I should say "Mama is doing what we need to get through). And no, I don't know when I'll be, if ever, normal--Gommie likes to call it "the new normal"--if only because I'll remember.

And I'm working hard to be okay with that. To do everything I can (lost 2 lbs this week; took my myriad of supplements for inflammation and muscle memory; didn't sit much beyond necessary; walked everyday--that's 210 minutes of exercise each week!). To accept "chronic" and any limitations and learn to live with it. To be mindful and present. To be grateful for where I am. Because I know it could be worse. Middle-of-the-night googling of symptoms and medical terms has taught me that, as well as stories I keep hearing. And my imagination. And my experience.

But there's more to me than my back.

Which I am trying desperately to remember.

And to forget.