Day Ninety-Seven: Complain, Complain, Complain

I've been out of commission for the past few weeks with a litany of surgical related issues. I have the "good luck", or should I say bad DNA, to have a lovely affliction called bunions. Who ever named this foot defect was someone without a sense of humor or imagination. The only thing that comes to mind is an old lady named Myrtle in a farmhouse dress and old fashioned brown tie shoes complaining that her bunions hurt after a long day of cooking for the boys out in the field. It should be so easy. In my case, it turns out to walk without pain I needed three bones broken and reset in each foot along with the shortening of a tendon or two, two small pins to secure the new bone setting, one large protruding pin during the healing process and two train tracks of sutures across the top and side of my foot. This brings to mind combat wounds not ole' Myrtle. Fun, it sure as hell ain't.

I had this surgery last spring with much success. I opted to do it again before the warm weather hit again so I may keep up with my boys activities and remain pain free. This appeared to be a good plan on its face. However, upon hoisting myself up out of bed and onto crutches, I tore cartilage in my opposing knee. This required a second trip to the surgeon for repair in less than a week of the first surgery. I am now hobbling about in a quasi-duck like manner with a huge bandage and club foot like boot on my right foot and a large ace bandage on my left knee. If anyone takes a photo of me while ambulatory, I think I'll kill them and eat the photographic evidence.

The worst part for me is all the medication required to get through the surgeries and the healing. I do not tolerate well the anesthesia nor the narcotic pain pills that were prescribed for my benefit. Sure, I got through it all fine, but it is is now 8 days after my initial surgery, 2 days after my second and 1 day off of all pain pills and I still feel vaguely hungover from all the medication coursing through my body. At least with a hangover you have the memories of all the fun before the pain. With this particular hangover, I missed the party and moved straight on to lump of nauseous misery. I guess I'll have to make up for the party part when I am fully recovered. (So long as such a party does not beget more surgery...)

I have realized that I am a complainer. Well, DUH. Not a novice complainer, but a first class, true to my Jewish American roots, "I can't believe this is happening to me" complainer. I am not taking all this particularly well. I have been mildly pissed off since I injured my knee. Never mind that we have health insurance to pay for all this, we have a medical reimbursement account to pay the deducible (that I think I've blown the roof off of by now) and the money to pay a legion of babysitters to help with child care while I recuperate. I also have a husband who has completely taken up all the slack over the past 9 days while working full time. I have a father who has no problem driving here to take care of whatever my husband can't. I had family to take the kids the first weekend I was out of commission, so I actually got some peace and quiet. I also have a multitude of neighbors and friends who have sent food, flowers and good wishes during this medical drama. With all that I am I should be thankful for, I am still complaining. Why? Because this sucks, that's why.

I started writing this blog to focus on the positive, on creating kindness and goodwill in a world gone sarcastic and coarse. I knew I had to focus on what I could be doing to change my own outlook on life and to create the type of example I wanted to set for my children. Turns out, I am a complainer. I am a glass half-empty, "woe is me," sarcastic commentator when the chips are really down. I know intellectually all about kindness, compassion and optimism, but it is not encoded in my DNA. I will continue to work on both showing and feeling gratitude for my lot in life, but in the meantime, at my essence I am a combination of Joan Rivers, David Sedaris and Fran Fine all rolled into one hobbling, complaining mess. Who ever said that kindness was funny? I'm grateful for the laughter my complaining begets every time. After all, laughter is the best medicine.