Goddamned Appointments
I am so fucking sick of appointments.
Every day it feels like I’m driving somewhere else, sitting in another room, explaining my body to another stranger. All in the name of my “health.”
Yeah, I know. It’s necessary. Yeah, I know. I should be grateful.
Still doesn’t mean I’m not over it.
Since coming off FMLA and short-term disability and going back full-time, I’ve been burning through PTO like it’s gasoline. I can see the end of it. I can feel the edge. And even though I knew that was the deal, it still sucks.
What I crave is normal. I crave waking up at the same time every day. Coffee. Same damn breakfast. Gear up. Hit the road. Go build something meaningful at work.
Leave at the same time. Come home. Ride. Eat. Ride some more. Write. Sleep. Repeat. Simple. Predictable. Controllable.
Instead, it’s chaos.
If I’m being honest, it’s been chaos since the night of the crash. Or at least since the first day I can clearly remember afterward. Ever since then, I’ve been chasing appointments that have nothing to do with my soul’s goals. Nothing to do with the itch in my chest that wants to create, to lead, to move.
Just… maintenance.
There’s a quasi-end in sight. Things taper off by early March. Then surgery at the end of March to slice my lip back open and sew it up correctly. After that?
Maybe I get to be normal for a while.
I hate that my body has become the centerpiece of conversations. I hate that updates on healing and swelling and scans dominate the air between me and the people I care about.
And yet I bring it up too. That part’s on me.
Nobody’s ever accused me of not embracing hypocrisy.
Here’s the current greatest hits list:
Morel-Lavallée lesion — still healing, probably another appointment or two.
AC joint separation — PT first, surgery maybe.
Lip reconstruction at the end of the month.
Foot follow-ups and X-rays.
Soft tissue damage through my left leg, usable, yes, but still twice the size of the right and healing at its own stubborn pace.
TBI, the quiet one. The invisible one. The one I can’t measure. Maybe I just live with a slightly shittier memory now.
It is what it is. Maybe normalcy helps. Maybe routine is rehab. Maybe discipline is medicine.
I don’t need perfection. I just want steadiness.
I want my life to stop revolving around scan dates and follow-ups. I want it to revolve around creation again.
I survived the crash. I survived the hospital. I survived the chaos. Now I just want to survive the goddamned appointments long enough to get back to being me.
