diary of bone-chilling leisure
/When was the last time you thought of peeking into someone else’s diary or—the seemingly mature version—the journal? A page or two perhaps, not the things that make you cringe, just enough to get a sense of what another deranged soul is thinking first thing in the morning or last thing at night.
So here you go, a few pages from mine, to show how the human brain works when faced with a sudden, irrevocable, bone-chilling event that tips its precarious balance. Bottom line: the mind can be a kooky place to live.
Dear Diary:
Monday: Ha! How lucky was that slip. Wow! This is just a tiny twisty sprain. Beat the odds again. I can walk on this ankle great, maybe with a wince and a wiggle, but hobbling counts. I’ll put some spit on it and go on with my very important day. Ouch! Well, okay, maybe I’ll take a short break (don’t say break)—Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation, or R.I.C.E. as they say, preferably brown rice—and that’ll be it. I’m fine, I’m absolutely fine. That was close. Whew!
Tuesday: So it’s swollen. What isn’t swollen? My eyes when I get up in the morning, my feet at the end of the day, my ego when I decide I’m stronger, smarter, and way better looking than the person near me until the next one shatters (don’t say shatter) my cool. This is not ego talking. This is my body saying, “Not again, not another ankle”—even if it does hurt, especially if it hurts. Just testing me, is all. But it doesn’t hurt, so long as I don’t move it or try to move anything else. Or stand up or sit or lie down. I know! For a while, I’ll just lean.
Wednesday: Alright, already, maybe I’ll pay the doctor a visit so people will leave me alone. Nothing worse than so-called friends and family saying denial may be a river in Egypt, but delusion is a ticket to the Dead Sea. I guess I better get on it before they stage an intervention. I’ll humor that annoying cast of characters (don’t say cast) so I can crack the whip (don’t say crack) sometime in the future.
Thursday: It’s broken, dear Diary. I have a hairline fracture on the skinny fibula, a Robocop boot, and scary crutches. And it hurts. HELP, dear Diary, HELP . . .
I called feisty ninety-six-year-old Aunt Wanda who’d had at least a dozen surgeries over the years and many broken bones.
“Let me tell you,” she advised, in one of her rare subdued tones, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned about how to handle this kind of thing, it’s to enjoy it.”
Me: Enjoy the pain and suffering?
Wanda: Of course not. But this is one of those special times you can rest. Don’t push, pretend you’re at the beach, and keep yourself entertained the best way you can. Read, watch Netflix, eat good food, let people take care of you. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my life of injuries, it’s to enjoy this time of leisure. I don’t mean accept it, I don’t mean tolerate it, I don’t mean grin and bear it. I mean enjoy it. It can really be quite wonderful.
Me: But I’ve already broken six other bones, remember? This is my second broken ankle. Isn’t that enough leisure already?
Wanda: What good does all that yoga do for you, anyway?
Friday: Okay, dear Diary, we have our marching orders (yes, think march), so let’s try to grow up and Rock-and-R.Y.C.E. the new way. Read, do Yoga lying down, Chill, and most of all, listen to your aunt and Enjoy the rest.
Wanda says, “Could it hurt?”