Anyone who knows me knows that I like to be in control. I am independent, strong-willed, and very particular about how I spend my time. I relish my freedom, and really don’t like to rely on others for my daily needs. So when I fell and broke my hand a month before my 40th birthday … well, you can imagine what this did to my equilibrium.
Picture this: It’s a late night in February, and I’ve come home from an evening out ready to plant myself on the couch for a little Netflix before hitting the sack. I get out of my car, step around the back, plant my foot on a small patch of ice that I’ve walked upon at least 100 times, and … down down down I go. I attempt to catch myself against the car, to no avail. There’s no flailing, no hard kerplunk. Just a gentle slide. I appear – I imagine – much like one of Dali’s melting clocks. It would be comical under normal circumstances.
But these are not normal circumstances.
I won’t go into the details of how I made it from my car to my couch. I won’t describe the hysterics that ensued shortly thereafter. I won’t even waste time describing all the events in the urgent care facility while I waited for x-rays, then freezing, then setting of bones. The first breaks of my life, and I had two. Heck, if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it right! Happy 40th birthday to me!
A few days later, the bones were pinned; I had the splint, stitches and pain to prove it. I realized very quickly that I wouldn’t be able to be on my own. So my sister, wonderful person that she is, moved me into her house.
Have I mentioned that I’m independent? That I like to be in control? That I really don’t like relying on others?
Indeed. Yet there I was, suddenly dependent on others for almost everything. I couldn’t open jars. I couldn’t crack an egg. I couldn’t turn door handles, or hook my bra, or even style my own hair. I could manage to take care of business in the bathroom on my own, so I guess that’s something. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t painless, but a girl has to have boundaries.
It was jarring to be thrust into the routines of four other people, and not only because I couldn’t do for myself – though of course that was a huge part of it. But really, my discomfort came from being away from my creature comforts, being unable to fulfill my standard commitments, and most of all, being “in the way” of other people. I found myself struggling with level upon level of guilt: for intruding on the lives of my family members, for asking their help to complete the simplest of tasks, for snapping at them when I lost patience with myself, for crying when it all became too much. I was an emotional basket case, especially during those first few weeks.
And then, things changed. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but a time came when I no longer felt overwhelmed. The pain in my hand was bearable, my emotions were more even-keeled, and the noise and routine of others were just part of my every day. I found small ways to contribute: emptying the dishwasher, helping the kids study, folding laundry (my chin got a great workout). I may have been unable to drive and open jars, but there were plenty of things I could do. And day by day, those things became more numerous.
Two months later, I moved home again. In my own space, back in control, I was able to reflect upon my time “away” … and found that I’d learned some valuable lessons:
- When someone offers to help, accepting said help is not an imposition.
It was difficult to admit to myself – and to my sister – that I was going to need her assistance. Certainly the pain in my hand was excruciating, but the pain of admitting that I couldn’t go it alone? Almost as bad. But it did ease. Eventually. After countless reassurances and emotional bumps in the road. After awhile, I discovered that accepting help isn’t the end of the world. Quite the opposite, in fact.
- I am more adaptable than I ever believed.
I went from living in a relatively quiet apartment (obnoxious, loud neighbours aside) to living in a large house with four other people, a dog, and two cats. I thought it would make me insane. And at times, it did overwhelm me, especially in the beginning. But as time passed, I began to take it in stride. Heck, sometimes I even participated in the chaos. I’m not embarrassed to admit that when I finally moved back home, I missed the craziness. I grew bored, at times, with the quiet. Still do, in fact. Shhhh. Don’t tell anyone.
- I don’t have to be independent and in control all the time.
It helps to be – especially when things don’t go as expected – but when necessary, I really am capable of letting go and rolling with the tide. As long as I can see the shore. And the water isn’t too deep. And … can I wear floaties? Okay, so it’s a work in progress.
I can’t imagine a better way to have started this journey. Happy 40th birthday to me, indeed!
* Special thanks to my sister, brother-in-law, niece, nephew, and fur-nephew for making this first “outta the ‘Chelle” experience such a great one!
