The Body in Conversation
My body is aghast at what I’ve done to it. Open-mouthed, slack-jawed, incredulous. Like the time in the 11th grade when I was playing powder puff (Ha!) football for the Keyettes. I was standing there minding my own business when wham! I was knocked senseless onto the ground. I struggled upright to see the grinning face of a girl on the other team named Margaret. She said something along the lines of that being her assignment—to knock me out. After many years of watching football, I’ve concluded her move was an illegal block in the back. Be that as it may, at the time I was too discombobulated to even protest.
My body is at the same stage. In shock over the betrayal, really. In every moan and groan, I hear its protest: Why’d you have to go and do this? Things weren’t that bad, were they? We were getting along fine; we were working it out. Your reaction seems somewhat drastic.
It was drastic. As my husband says, a week ago, they sawed off my hip. I am progressing amazingly well, everyone says. Up and out of the bed by myself. Practicing walking with a cane. Good with the physical therapy movement.
Tell that to my disillusioned body.
I’m sure it will come around. Grudgingly, as my movement returns to what it was five years ago, my body will concede the wisdom of my decision. It will see this as a difficult but necessary step in what I hope to be a long road into the future.
The problem? Just as my body begins to put all this behind us, when I am rehabbed, recovered, and back to normal, I’m getting the next hip done.
Be thinking about me when this reality dawns on my body: you knew how bad this was going to be and you did it to us AGAIN? As the characters in the British mystery novels I’ve been reading would say, Bloody Hell!