“God fucking dammit!”
I struggle to orient myself to a sitting position. WHAT did I fall over? There’s NOTHING there!!! Bear comes in, sniffs around. “I’m OK.” But I’m not. No, My chest/side hurts INCREDIBLY. I get up. This is NOT good. Did I break a rib? Bruise a rib? I immediately start researching what that would feel like. Yeah, it feels like that. But it also feels like a pulled oblique or one of the little muscles between the ribs. I have no idea.
“I do not need this,” I think. “What if I can’t have my surgery next week?” NEXT WEEK? Holy fucking shit. (I’m prone to cursing in just this unimaginative way. My dad tried to teach me better, but he wasn’t around long enough to finish the job.)
I have a doc appt tomorrow, anyway. Pre op tests. If it’s still hurting like this, I’ll ask for an x-ray. Dammit.
I curse the vacuum (it isn’t working right, anyway) and put it away. I go about my day — already somewhat in slow motion, now in very slow motion. It would feel really, really good to have an old fashioned temper tantrum, the kind I had as a kid, that ended in being sent to my room where I could dissolve in tears on my bed and go to sleep and get awakened for supper. “Have you calmed down? Do you want supper?” I never was a sulker. More your raging tiger.
But those days are over and my mom was right. “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. You’ll be a grown up for a long time. You’re only a kid for a little while.”