I have, without question, the best physical therapist.  I know this because he has successfully treated me for four different groups of injuries over the years, one of which was technically three different issues with my shoulder.  Other testaments to his amazing healing powers: 1) he’s not a former CPA with a foot fetish, and 2) he is very, very popular.  On that second point, I’m admittedly not sure if it’s because of all the people that have been referred to him over the years or if the bulk of it is McLean cougars hitting on him, because they absolutely do.  But I digress.  His schedule is always full, and I’d like to think it’s mostly from being so good at what he does.

Most recently, he has been helping me heal after hip surgery a little over two months ago.  To say I’ve had a shitty time is truly underselling the past two months, or even 2021 as a whole.  In just the past two weeks, these are the things that have happened:

• The furnace in the part of the house I’ve been living in died
• Replacing that furnace, as well as the one that was a ticking time bomb for carbon monoxide poisoning, ran us the gentle amount of $25k
• This was after the $3k spent fixing the plumbing the day before, the result of the drain cleaner that ate its way up a basement wall
• My father-in-law moved into the room with the bathroom that was partially eaten by the drain cleaner
• My insurance company notified me that my patient liability for aforementioned hip surgery was just a few sweet dollars short of $10k
• The dishwasher died.

Alarmingly, there’s actually more to this list, but I’ll stop after mentioning that the latest check-in with my surgeon ended with an observation that if my incision keeps draining, I’ll need to go back into the operating room.  I mean, who wouldn’t be excited about that.

So I really don’t think that my decision to sit in the shower yesterday and bawl for so long that the hot water ran out was that unreasonable in the grand scheme of things.  As such, I was hellbent on getting to physical therapy after Monday’s snow made me miss my other appointment for the week.

The reason?  I need to be able to hide upstairs and possibly never, ever come back down again.

Since surgery, I’ve been sleeping on the pullout sofa in the home office next to the living room. There is a door separating the office from the living room, and said door is 50% glass.  As such, I have had next to zero privacy.  “Not even in the bathroom,” you ask?  Not even in the bathroom, my friend, when you consider how many poor souls have had to help me put on underwear or wash my hairy calves in recent history.  The dogs just like to pop in there to make things just a tiny bit more exciting, and possibly grab a snack from the trash can.

I need time to recharge privately, and this is not a euphemism for intimacy with a battery-operated phallus.  (Or I guess it’s not limited to that, I should say.)  I’m probably one of only a handful of people who was actually functional and thriving in 2020 because it gave me all the time in the world to retreat, quietly meditate, do yoga, read, knit, tat lace, and enjoy being alone without ever feeling lonely.

I’m not sure if it’s because his face was within kicking distance or if he sensed the rising hysteria and shrill edge to my voice when I stated “I AM AN INTROVERT AND NEED TO BE CAPABLE OF GETTING AWAY FROM THE OTHER HOUSE MAMMALS,” but Therapist Mike obliged.  He showed me how to safely ascend and descend the stairs, albeit in a way that made me feel oddly like a geriatric pigeon with opposable thumbs.  

It’s a small victory, but so are literally all of the tiny steps that lead up to it: tonight, I’m going to climb the stairs.  If I feel especially feisty, I might even do some embroidery while listening to a podcast by two best friends!  Then. THEN.  I will sleep in a real bed for the first time since 24 October 2021.

And I will love every fucking moment of it.

Anousheh: Bones