Yesterday I went running. It was marvellous. The tress were whispering louder, their leaves somehow greener. The birds sang uninterrupted and I bobbed along slowly, my jelly arms wobbling, with a massive grin on my face. I felt so happy. Like anything could have happened and I wouldn’t care. I felt like I’d got my body back. A shit one, that felt terrible, so unfit and sluggish and wobbly. But back. Three months ago I wouldn’t have cared that I could run because I couldn’t climb 8a. Yesterday running felt like the best thing since sliced bread and 8a just a number and a letter. Once again I was reminded that happiness is a present condition and the causes of happiness, relative.
It’s been two months since the op. Perhaps the slowest and fastest two months of my life. Two months filled with so many non-days, so many days spent all day in the house, days where nothing remarkable happened. But all strung together they have somehow managed to become quite a remarkable point in my life. There were days where I was very calm and content and I spent peaceful hours slowly stretching, reading, writing, cooking. Some days I was very sad and frustrated. But there weren’t many of these days. I expected there to be a lot of wishing the time away, hoping for the hours to pass, but actually I filled my days with interesting and productive activities. At points I even relished the time.
But when I ran yesterday I knew I couldn’t go back. I knew that even though I’d passed the test, I couldn’t go back again, that a second round would be the end of me. I’d managed two months of no exercise, no fun times with friends outside, no climbing, no running, no adventures. I hadn’t gone insane, I hadn’t cried myself to sleep. But I knew as I bobbed along the path trying not to jar my shoulder, that I wouldn’t be able to pass the test a second time.
Please right shoulder, don’t fail me again, and please left shoulder stay in tact. I won’t pass the test a second time.