Fifty Days In

It’s been fifty days since the accident. Fifty days since someone else’s hurry became my problem.

Where do I stand?

Well, I can fucking stand. Kind of. I’m not supposed to. But I do it anyway. I’m careful. I don’t load the foot bones that actually broke, but I stand. I walk. I go up and down stairs, slow as hell, deliberate, focused. Every step is a negotiation, but it’s a negotiation I’m winning.

My upper body? Absolute trash right now. I’m lifting eight-pound dumbbells like they’re sacred artifacts. Chickenshit weight. But I’m doing thirty reps for biceps, thirty for triceps, thirty for shoulders, over and over and over again. Multiple times a day. As many rounds as I can survive. It’ll come back. Muscle always does if you’re stubborn enough.

My wrist and forearm? Doctor said “no more than five pounds.” Cool story. My lightest dumbbell is eight. So eight it is.

I refuse to age quietly. I refuse to shrink.

My knee, though. My goddamned knee.

There’s fluid pooled between skin and muscle, running up my inner thigh and down toward the knee. It hurts when gravity pulls it to one side. Every doctor says the same thing: “It’ll reabsorb.” When? Because it’s been over seven weeks and it fucking hasn’t.

I’ve asked for an ultrasound. Nobody bothers. I’ve read enough to know what a Morel-Lavallée lesion looks like, feels like, behaves like. But no one wants to look. “It’ll reabsorb.” How’s the weather. Fuck you.

My lip? Yeah. That’s a thing. There’s a chunk missing. Big enough to see a tooth through it. I eat with my head tilted like some kind of carnival exhibit, napkins always nearby. It’s grotesque. Temporary, I hope, but temporary still means months. March. April. Maybe May.

My cheek and chin are numb. Zero sensation.
My teeth? One missing. One bent. I’m rocking a real Hollywood hick aesthetic right now.

Fucking classic.

And yet, this broken, stitched-together, half-functional version of me has produced more meaningful work than any “healthy” version ever did.

Memoir: finished.
Survivor’s guide: finished.
Short stories: finished.

That fucking matters.

If all of this damage-every scar, every limp, every missing piece-is the price of admission to accomplishment lane, then I’m all fucking in. I’d pay it again.

This accident didn’t just change how I walk. It changed how I think. How I write. How I speak. How I decide.

I am obsessed now.
I am focused.
I am driven.

I will die one day. But not before I etch my name into this world.