By Christian McMahon: For More Info, Go Here…
I am working through one of those once a half-decade-or-so massive health shifts that folks with any chronic condition may find familiar: a rapid shift in function, surgery to implant more metal bits in me that set off alarms whenever I go anywhere with security, an opportunity to discover somewhat terrifying “fun” facts about the configuration of my unique body, an unwanted break from work that is not super well timed, and a chance to revisit and continue unpacking a lifetime of medical trauma.
Clearly, this is not a situation anyone would sign up for with enthusiasm. But here I am, several weeks out of skilled nursing, delighted beyond reason to regain capacity for things like cooking hot meals and showering without an audience.
All of this easily falls into a frame of frightening tragedy. More than that, it is aggressively shoved into that frame by folks who wish me well. Looks of sorrow and pity abound as declarations like “poor you” and “I wish this wasn’t happening to you” fly my way. I appreciate the empathy, but so many sad expressions can weigh a person down like cinder blocks.