It’s been ten days since I injured myself gravely and I have been scanning my body daily for signs of improvement. I can see definitive advancement from the first eventful day when I implored Bertina that it was okay to leave me lying on my back on the garage floor and go home. I am not sure how long I ended up staying there, but I do remembering not knowing how I was going to get up. This was a dark day of pain and unknowing.
Even the next day, driving to Masaya to see Miguel for a therapy massage, I can only figure that it must have been worse because I needed the pharmacy to inject me with an anti-inflammatory painkiller by the name of Enantyum to manage the 20 minute drive home to Granada.
Ironically enough, but so like me, I reacted to that drug and was sick the whole of the next week with a host of side effects including clinical dehydration. My son Aiden jokingly asked me which of the seven plagues of punishment I was experiencing at the moment. The list I gave him was long.
And then this week, the sun began to poke around from behind the clouds. I wasn’t sick anymore, though it will take time to repair my digestive track (again! God bless Bragg’s apple cider vinegar). I could move about the house and do what I needed to do. I could work at my desk. There was marked betterment in most of my mobility.
But yesterday, I had to draw the line at what was to be considered encouraging improvement when I couldn’t walk down the block to save my life. It felt like someone had sliced inches off of my left leg and resewn it up distinctively shorter and tighter. It burned and needled, there were parts of my foot that I couldn’t feel.
Luckily, I had run into my lawyer earlier that morning at the car wash (a typical Granada experience) and told him what was going on. He Whatsapped me the information for a physical therapist here in Granada that had been recommended to him. And so this morning, after dropping Aiden off at school I decided (as if there was a choice!) to head directly to her clinic.
Doctora Xochilt is young, but I placed myself in her hands with the confidence of one who is so tired of not being well, even a misguided quack would offer a welcome placebo effect. Fortunately, for me she was not that! There was important therapy that she could not do until I got her the X-rays she needs to see if any serious structural damage has been done. But she ran electrical current through the entire nerve in my left leg and used magnets to increase the circulation.
She then worked a physical session with me on the table that required my best mental stamina to overcome the horror of the complete discomfort that it rendered (almost like a feeling of being tickled against one’s will, then stretched in a definitely-not-a-good, medieval-ish sort of way.
Finally she finished by injecting my leg with a solution of 90% oxygen to further increase the circulation to bring down the inflammation (no side effects she promised, 100% natural).
At the moment, the only side effect I feel is good. Does the oxygen find its way to your brain? As I cruised around Granada (the most beautiful city in the world, my home, my home, my beloved home), and I smiled at all the handsome faces around me (God, I love these wonderful people) and thought about the work that I was so happy to write this morning (I am so blessed to know what gives me joy), I realized that I was high.
My left leg, though it is at the moment very sad with me, is as beautiful as my right and I am so sorry that I caused it such grief.
But I have never been happier in my life than I am right now at this moment. I love everyone and everything.
This is it. This is perfection. From the purest pain comes the pleasure of living. I’ve never had it so good.