I was excited to move forward and fix my knee. The idea of living without pain was so appealing and so lovely. I laid out the plans in my head. The doctor appointments, the required x-rays and MRI, the surgery, recovery, rehabilitation. I considered the impact to my family and my work. I knew I could make this more than plans and dreams. I knew I could get back to the life I had before I got hurt.
Reality has set in. I cannot recover my life. The stark, painful truth is that there won't be bike rides with the family, there won't be walks and hikes. I won't ever get to run one of the dogs in agility. Camping won't happen again. I'll never use a hunting license after the girls and I worked to pass the hunter's safety class together. I won't travel.
I am grateful to have a job that I enjoy and that offers benefits. The insurance is reasonable, if you aren't already living in poverty.
I recently started on the plan for my grand life restoration. It was when I was told the MRI would be $2400 that I balked. Perhaps I could shop around. I was given a quote for $800, which was exciting, until I realized that even $800 is incredibly prohibitive.
While I have insurance, I don't have the money for the deductible or out-of-pocket expenses. Not having a great deal of experience at my job means it will be next year before I get vacation or qualify for unpaid leave, which is still a hardship.
When you live paycheck to paycheck, when you don't have a washer and dryer that work, when the transmission on the minivan slips and falters, there is no way in good conscience you can justify spending so much money on yourself. Not when the family you adore and live for, needs so much.
I guess it is time to step back from the edge of freedom.
Friday, June 24, 2016
Thursday, June 16, 2016
Vunerable
Its a fact of life that I live in a constant state of worsening pain. Accompanying that pain is the ever present fear that comes from the vulnerability of being hurt and financially unstable. Sometimes, its hard to accept that this is my life.
I sit next to the Boy and coach him through his math test. I remind him of strategies to succeed when testing, all while wishing I weren't sitting at the kitchen table. I would rather sit in a recliner, ice packs on knees to help numb the pain. I would rather take a nap and try to catch a bit of the ever elusive sleep. Frankly, I would rather be anywhere other than at this table proctoring a 4th grade math test.
Nights like last night, when I get home late and frustrated by the mistakes I've made, coupled with that pain--that always and forever pain which supersedes all other concerns--makes for a sleepless and harsh night. The morning dawns and I drag myself into the day to be present in the lives of these children of mine.
I know that the Boy and I need this time together at the kitchen table, but I so badly want to abandon the test and abandon this moment I have with him and give up. It breaks me to realize that this pain has destroyed so much of my life.
I make lunch knowing that each minute I'm closer to having to leave for work, and farther from being ready for it. But this time with him is so dearly important. He may grow up to remember the times that I sat with him, gently prodding him to stay focused on the task at hand. Those memories may overshadow the times when I ask him to read to me as I rest in my bed gathering my willpower to get through another day.
I sit next to the Boy and coach him through his math test. I remind him of strategies to succeed when testing, all while wishing I weren't sitting at the kitchen table. I would rather sit in a recliner, ice packs on knees to help numb the pain. I would rather take a nap and try to catch a bit of the ever elusive sleep. Frankly, I would rather be anywhere other than at this table proctoring a 4th grade math test.
Nights like last night, when I get home late and frustrated by the mistakes I've made, coupled with that pain--that always and forever pain which supersedes all other concerns--makes for a sleepless and harsh night. The morning dawns and I drag myself into the day to be present in the lives of these children of mine.
I know that the Boy and I need this time together at the kitchen table, but I so badly want to abandon the test and abandon this moment I have with him and give up. It breaks me to realize that this pain has destroyed so much of my life.
I make lunch knowing that each minute I'm closer to having to leave for work, and farther from being ready for it. But this time with him is so dearly important. He may grow up to remember the times that I sat with him, gently prodding him to stay focused on the task at hand. Those memories may overshadow the times when I ask him to read to me as I rest in my bed gathering my willpower to get through another day.
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