The Dutiful Patient

To say I hate to be told what to do would be an understatement.  I prefer to be approached with a soothing, “are you open for suggestions?”, but in the last week, no one really gives a shit about what I want, they are being “helpful” in my recovery.  Please don’t perceive that I am anything but grateful.  The overwhelming support has been a boast to my level of healing.   Knowing that I am supported and loved by a variety of people eases my prickly nerves.

It is true that I am a pain in the ass.  I own it.   While I am willing to ask for help, my biggest triumphs are when I don’t have to.    That means I am healing and independently accomplishing small tasks.  That is step in the right direction.   (By the way, still loving my shower chair!)

Last night, we took the concept of a family dinner to a whole new level.   Bryce loves to “eat together, but in separate rooms”, which has been a habit since I am unable to sit at the table comfortably.   Once Bryce got home from football, I insisted that we eat together in our bedroom.  So, the four of us gathered at our unconventional dinner spot and recapped the day.   This was after Brian wasn’t aware of the dripping butter in the oven that caused the stench of smoke that permeated the house.  The man was sitting a few feet away, while I was down the hall.   Apparently, he is nose blind, oh, and maybe just blind since the smoke  blanketed the kitchen.     There is always a story to be told when dealing with this group.

So, while I am resting, I do roll my eyes a lot, go on a lengthy rants using strings of the F-word along with a barrage of bitching and moaning.    It is my prerogative to express myself.      The nurse this morning commented on how positive I was and what a pleasure that kind of attitude is to experience.   Apparently, I am exuding a different type of aura to outsiders than what is going on in my head.   I guess that is good, but after she left, I rolled my eyes.

Allowing my thoughts to have a voice, releases them from their rental property in my head.  My mood has more costume changes than Madonna during a concert, but that is okay.   I think when I overshare my emotions/feelings/current state of mind, readers might become uncomfortable, but I assure you that all is well.   Documenting my experience is just another way for me to heal.

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