I’m not a patient patient.
While navigating the later stages of rehab for my January injury, I had an uncomfortable epiphany.
I’m used to powering through the stages of healing by doing more than the recommended physical therapy. After all, more is better, right?
I’m also used to healing quickly. My baseline health is excellent for my age (don’t ask) and in the past, I’ve healed up remarkably well according to my doctors.
This time, no amount of PT can speed things up because when a nerve is severed, it has a timeline of its own. It’s unaffected by exercises that strengthen muscle and tendon. It doesn’t give a rat’s ass how healthy or strong I was before the accident. The chemistry of growing new nerve cells is intricate and, to my dismay, astonishingly slow.
Nerves don’t grow at all for the first 30 days after getting cut, then they creep along at a rate of about an inch a month. I’ve got a good 6.5 inches from the injury site to the tip of my index finger, which means that any day now, I should get some feeling back. At my age, my doctor reminds me, that’s probably optimistic. It will be NEXT August before I know how much sensitivity and enervation I’ll end up with.
On a recent walk in the woods, I came to the realization that I can’t power through this. I can’t force it to happen any faster.
I have no pull, no special standing, no mileage in the account that I can redeem. There’s no one I can slip a twenty to in order to skip the line and get into the club.
It’s just going to unfold at its own pace, unaffected and untroubled by my wishes, efforts, or tantrums. I’ll do what I can to support that unfolding, which boils down to two things: taking nerve growth support supplements the size of bumblebees that are equally as pleasant to swallow, and protecting my hand from further injury.
I’m left to think about where else in my life things need to unfold at their own natural pace. What other potentially uncomfortable things do I need to do to support the unfolding? What must I be willing to experience along the way? How can I mine the present moment for interesting things to learn, so that I don’t spiral into frustration and self-pity?
In this case, I had to learn to grieve the loss of the things I expected to be doing–the cancelled snowboard vacation, the abridged garden, the months of missed pickleball matches–without creating narratives of blame, self-recrimination, or comparison. I had to experience things I would have loved to skip over, like the ugly-crying breakdown and the recognition that I was going to have to ask for help along the way.
A lot of help.
I haven’t always approached it gracefully, even though I’ve been as intentional as I could in bringing some grace to the process. I noticed that if I let my stomp-marching moments of anger at the unexpectedly persistent pain or my inability to button my jeans, zip my jacket or tie my own shoes pass through me, I could carry on eating ice cream with my non-donminant hand. I could get a long night’s sleep and feel all self-righteous about how that’s helping me heal. I could ask my husband to do way more than his share of chores and not feel guilty.
I still felt a pang of “dang it!” when my pickleball squad gathered without me, or when I had to modify my yoga poses, or when I was too exhausted after PT to cook the dinner I had planned.
In tiny, imperceptible increments, I’m still inching my way forward to whatever the new normal might be.
And so, my friend, are you.
May you be well, may you be happy, and may you learn to eat ice cream with your non-dominant hand. (It’s good for your brain.)
