It’s day 1,234 of my captivity. Approximately. Or day 9, close enough. I’ve binged Bridgertonon Netflix and read the first two books, I’ve survived new year’s by going to bed at 9, I’ve managed to attend an ‘Intro to boxing’ class, going up and down a full flight of stairs on crutches. If you haven’t done it, you have no idea the feat that actually is. I’ve knitted a pair of mittens. I’ve showered sitting down. I’ve applied ice pack after ice pack, essential oils, ibuprofen on a schedule like it’s a med error if I miss it. I’ve had tons of calls, messages, offers of help and condolences. We haven’t had to actually make a meal yet, because so many amazing friends have stepped up to make us food. And everyone asks the dreaded question: “How are you?”

While they are kind and well meaning, what they really mean is,”I know your situation is shitty, but have you managed to find a bright side?”. The short answer is no. No I have not. And I don’t know what to do about it. My knees both still hurt. The swelling has receded slightly, and the bruising has developed into a bilious shade of purple/green. Every move is slow, painful, fearful. I’m stuck inside for an unknown amount of time, but if the lack of progress that I’ve made this week is any indication, it is a ‘while.’. I understand that ligaments and bones a) take a long time to heal, and b) do not re-attach magically. It’s not like two long lost lover ligaments reaching for eachother across the widening crevasse, “darling, grab my hand, I can save you, we can be together again!”. It’s more of a Thelma and Louise, middle finger raised as the ligaments forever rip apart, having no interest in reconnecting. They will need to be stitched together if they are ever to stabilize my joint again, but it will not be of their own free will.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but I’m a planner. I like lists, I like dates, I like to check things off. I do not like the unknown. I need a timeline. I also find it difficult to work with my immobility and my pain, which seems silly. I’m doing telehealth from home, and it’s awful. My leg is always uncomfortably distracting, my patients are back to back, and I need at least 5 minutes to get to the bathroom and back. If I get behind, then I can’t pee for 4 hours. And my patience is razor thin. I’m usually so kind, so tolerable, my patients like me because I listen to them. Now thats a strain, and I don’t have the mental capacity to handle my discomfort, immobility, and their issues. Plus trying to assess physical ailments over the phone is awful all by itself.

And let’s not even mention the guilt. What have I not done in the past 9 days? I’ve not done the dishes, I’ve not done a single load of laundry, I’ve not put my children to bed once, I’ve not driven, I’ve not vacuumed nor swept, I’ve not made any food with the exception of a bowl of cereal. Sure it sounds great, except that my partner has had to do all of this. And he’s not complained once. He’s helped me bathe and dress and made me meals, gotten me ice packs for my knees and hot packs for my back, as well as water and coffee and ibuprofen. I feel useless. I gain my sense of worth by doing things. Working hard, making meals, cleaning, taking care of my family. Now I’m a useless, depressed lump, who is no use for them. I know this isn’t true, logically in my head, but it’s hard to explain logic to feelings. The six year old told me yesterday, “you were nicer before your knee was dislocated.” He’s not wrong.

So what is the point of this rambling? If anything, it is to get the negativity out of my head and into words. It’s that you should check on your injured friends, because they are not ok. It’s that my family and friends are amazing. It’s that my knees are not any better.