Yesterday at 16h00, I got my cast removed- and even the doctor was disgusted by how dirty it was.
Breaking my arm was like one of those Celestine Prophecy moments for me, it forced me to sit the f*ck down and be still. Which isn’t something I normally gravitate towards, if you haven’t noticed. I fought hard against the stillness at first, but as the weeks went on, I slowly accepted it and almost came to love the fact that I was at reduced capacity.
I thought that once the cast was off, my arm would be miraculously cured, and that I could excavated the 25′ x 25′ garden plot myself, drag stones back for a new rock garden and get back to my push up challenges.
Um… Expectations…. meet Reality?
My arm still hurts, there are weird hairs growing on it and I have a very strange tan on my fingers. I shed so much skin the bath last night, I felt like I was molting. No push ups either.
I’ve spent so much time reflecting over the past month and despite the few bad days (there was a doooooooozie of an anxiety day on Monday), I can honestly say that I wouldn’t trade that broken arm in for anything. It snapped my focus away from my body’s appearance and focused it on how it worked (or didn’t) and how it was going to heal itself, all by staying still.
My body is not mine for the taking, it doesn’t deserve the mean girl dialog. This bag of bones is on loan and it’s my purpose to take care of it to the best of my ability.