A Tale Of Two Sides Of The Same Night

Yesterday was a good damn day. Not extraordinary. Not earth-shattering. Just the kind of day that quietly proves you’re not done yet.

I spent most of it at home, alone, shuffling up my own stairs at a snail’s pace. I washed dishes, did laundry, and scrubbed toilets. Nothing glamorous, but after weeks of being knocked flat, doing the boring shit feels like a win.

And part of why yesterday felt so good is because I finally stopped waiting for permission to live again. I started using the walker. Not because a doctor cleared me, but because my ass was tired of sitting in that chair. Even though my left foot isn’t supposed to bear weight yet, with the pins only out a week and a half and no follow-up until January, I decided heel-weight was safe. I wasn’t going to fuck up the metatarsals. I wasn’t dumping full pressure, just enough to move. If my body wasn’t ready, it would’ve told me.

Same with my wrist. Still tender, but stronger since the screws went in. I ditched the brace. I’m building strength now, not later. Call it stubborn, call it reckless, this is who the fuck I am.

By the time Jon came by, my legs felt like they’d been dipped in battery acid. I napped, then hauled my ass to The Alley to see my pool league.

It felt damn good to be out.

People I barely knew hugged me like I mattered. Folks I only see on league nights or weekend tournaments told me they were worried. It hit harder than I expected. Michelle lit up when she saw me. God, I love her. Pure warmth. Full sun. It felt like stepping back into my life.

I woke today in the middle of a dream, one that rose out of deep sleep and wrapped itself around me. A dream of autonomy. A dream with no pain, only sensation. A dream where everything works the way it should. And I know I’ll get there. But healing takes a long damn time, especially with a restless spirit burning to create something that lasts.

Yesterday I tried autonomy on for size. It almost fit. Today, I carry the remnants of that fitting, muscles and bones aching, but not like the hospital ache. A better ache. A living ache.

Then the irritation hit.

I woke up pissed at that idiot doctor who dismissed everything I came in for—my knee, my shoulder, PT—because he needed to check off his neat little boxes: A1C, eye exam, colonoscopy. Meanwhile, my knee was filling with fluid, the inside smashed from the crash, the skin ripped, the bone inflamed. Five weeks later, the fluid still hasn’t “absorbed back into my body,” like he claimed it would.

Instead, it’s migrating, dropping into my knee when I stand, creeping into my thigh when I lay down. Pressure, heat, bone-deep aggravation. I’m no doctor, but I know when something needs to be drained.

So now I’m weighing my options. Urgent care? New doctor? Write the first one off entirely? Something has to happen, and soon.

Yesterday showed me the world still has room for me. Today reminded me the fight isn’t over. Both are true. And I’m not stopping.