Feeling trapped at 8 a.m.

I’m having a bit of a breakdown this morning… For those of you that don’t know, I sprained my foot on Tuesday afternoon.  Leaving the pharmacy with antibiotics for my sick Sophia, on our way to the grocery store to pick up Gatorade and chicken soup for my dehydrated, vomiting husband, I tripped off the curb toward our car, saving my daughter from cracking her head open, but turning my foot into an unbelievable pretzel.  While Will was vomiting #45 and #46 of the day, I called a friend to go over and rouse him to be superman for me and come save me.  It was so unbelievably scary to sit crying uncontrollably, incapacitated on the curbside with a toddler wanting to run about.  It’s completely by the grace of God that Sophia was unharmed and Will was able to take me to the doctor.

After a day of getting used to being cripple and Will fully recovering from his migraine and dehydration, I’m off my thankful high that we’re all okay.  I’m still thankful, but today I’m depressed.  This occurred to me at a blessed 8 o’clock this morning after hearing my daughter crying and coughing in the next room for the 800th time of the night.  I’d slept horribly: at 30 weeks pregnant it’s hard to sleep anyway, but I’d tossed and turned with foot pain, back pain, and sinus congestion, and when I wasn’t awakened by one of these said maladies, I either needed to pee or heard my poor daughter calling out…  I laid awake at 8:00 having no idea what time it was, fully knowing that I couldn’t go get my daughter, and it hit me like a ton of bricks.  I’d have to wake up my husband.  My poor husband who’s been waiting on me hand and foot while recovering from his own day of hell, taking care of Sophia’s every need while working from home, and who-no doubt-woke with me numerous times in the night as I tossed and turned and moaned and whined and cried in pain for midnight bathroom trips.  It hit me at 8 o’clock this morning that the me that I’ve so much enjoyed lately–the doing, the serving, the going–was brought to a standstill.  My vocabulary, my thoughts, everything I think to say and do seems useless… and, I’m forced to ask someone else to do them for me.  I’m used to asking, “Do you need anything?  Can I get something for you?”  Now, it’s a thought that is met with sadness and grief and frustration.  I’m realizing today that I’m much more of a doer than I knew.  My role that I’ve grown to love and cherish and take on as part of me has (temporarily) disappeared.  If I felt “legitimately” sick, like temperature of 102 with body aches and vomiting, then it wouldn’t be a problem for me to ask for a glass of water from the kitchen.  But, when all that keeps me from it is a bum foot, it feels silly to ask.  Why don’t I just get it myself? Well, because it would take me 10 minutes to either crawl or use my crutches to get up and down and I couldn’t possibly carry a glass of water with crutches… Something about my mind isn’t associating the sprained foot as legitimate… Though, I feel more incapacitated today than yesterday because it seems I’m sore from doing too much, yesterday.  It’s so dang hard to balance my front-heavy self with an extra 30 pounds up and down from a chair or the toilet or the floor.  My arms and shoulders ache from this new activity…

Well, as I watch my husband go up and get our daughter from her nap… here we go back to the day… not that I have much to get back to… watching other people do things for me…

One Response

  1. Oh my goodness! Y’all have had a horrible time of it. I wish I were close by–I’d come over! I’ll just have to send my well-wishes instead, and prayers to the Father.

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