Doesn't this look like a good place to hang in there? I came here to soothe my jangled nerves after my last orthopedic follow up. I don't know why those always have to suck so much, but at least I could chill out for a while and then go home to resume my endless rotation of Netflix, ice pack-ing and pill taking. Will Rogers State Beach is wheelchair accessible via this fantastic ramp, so I can go there no matter how I am feeling in regard to walking. I am bummed that the last time our family came to visit, we didn't get to take them to my favorite spot, and I had to sit in the parking lot while they beached it up farther down PCH.
My bloggy pal Sarah has been making my day leaving comments on this blog, while she has been laid up recovering from foot surgery. That girl has felt my pain these past few weeks! She knows what's up. Send some good healing and patient thoughts her way!
You see, I never think it takes strength or thick skin to do this; to be the one that opens the radiology clinic at 5 am in the dark (Honestly, could it have been any darker outside that clinic? It looks like the middle of the night.) and be the first scan of the day. It's eerie being in such a huge hospital so early before patients or normal volume of staff.
I wait endlessly for follow up calls and results, and I remain tireless in my fight to receive adequate care. I painstakingly craft the very specific Dave Matthews Band playlists that will allow me to breathe and keep me from losing my mind in the waiting room. The strength must be in me, somewhere, because I get through all of this, over and over. I face each day, even if it's not on two feet. Sure, I cry at the beach about how tired I am until my tears fog up my sunglasses. I'm proud that I can say it's hard. I want to punch walls but I don't. I hold my husband's hand really tightly when the pain overtakes me. When I can't get out of bed, I feel I "lose" whatever strength or physical stamina I've been fighting for at P.T.-- but that isn't true. It can't be true. It's never really a loss. It's a gain. Just like those ligaments somehow miraculously managed to mend from my original scan, I manage to bounce back and heal from the blows dealt by test after test, and obstacle after obstacle. This is what my life with cerebral palsy is. I am okay with it because I have to be. Fight on, friends.