Painkillers and Poetry

My sister and I have a joke. Well, it’s actually less of a joke, and more that my sister thinks I’m a little bonkers–like in a needing meds adjacent kind of way. You see she’s a very calm and relaxed sort. I’m about as far from relaxed as they come.  Rather excitable one might even say.

I tend to have a lot on the go. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not a “Busy Barbie”. I always think those lovely ladies spend more time and energy TELLING everyone about all the stuff they do, and slightly less actually DOING the stuff. I’m a project girl. I’m happiest when I’m doing… stuff. In short, I do not relax well.

A couple of weeks ago a kindly emergency room doctor presented me with a white package containing a single tiny pill and an equally tiny paper cup of water.

“For the pain.” He smiled kindly and gently patted my shoulder.

What he didn’t realize was that the tears streaming down my face were not as result of the foot I had just broken, they were mourning the loss of my ability to do… stuff.

Once the particularly potent little pill had kicked in, I was carefully planning how I would rearrange my daily life. The cast which was at that very moment being plastered onto my offending foot was the problem. Pain I can deal with, lack of mobility poses a larger issue.

Gym time was clearly out, although I will admit that I had not entirely ruled out upper body and core work. I just had to wait out those pretty, twinkling lights behind my eyelids every time I blinked. And once everyone’s speech returned to a normal speed I knew I would be good to go.

In the meantime I assumed I would just write write write.

What I hadn’t realized was that I seem most able to focus on being a productive and creative writer once all my STUFF is done. I’m quite good at clearing it all up early in the day and then I am finally able to sit down and focus on the writing.

So there I sat for many more days and weeks than I care to consider with all of this STUFF undone. It made writing a little difficult… of course the little white pills in the very early days didn’t help that much either. I probably should have attempted poetry at that point.

So the pill portion of breakage over with and near complete mobility returned to normal, I am once again able to focus on writing. Did I mention how I broke my foot? Going for the perfectly framed shot of a full moon. Did I mention that my emerg doctor’s name was Wolff? Hmm, maybe there’s a short story in there somewhere:)

About Stacia

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