I’m kind of like a Jack Russell Terrier. Perpetual motion. Fitbit freak. Perfectionist. Until I broke my ankle in two places seven days before the moving truck arrived.

In a minute, I was banished to the Isle of Immobility at perhaps the most inconvenient time Providence could have allowed. I became a prisoner of my physical limitations.

Crutches. Handless. Left foot only. Carrying stuff around my neck, in my pockets, held between my teeth…determined, yes, but decidedly deterred.

Messes everywhere.
Sticky counters, clutter, crumbs, moving boxes, bubble wrap.
I hobble past the mess and groan because I can’t fix it.
So I sit, powerless to handle things my way, the only way I do things, my preferred methods and outcomes no longer my reality.
Deep sigh.
Asking for Every. Little. Thing.
“Calling Strategic Command Center…I just want my supplements…to get the mail…change the sheets…shower…pack that closet…do 3 errands in 20 minutes…tidy the house…need COFFEE!…get my cord, NO! NOT THAT CORD….my crutches….I’m thirsty… I just want to ________________” times a million. Hurry up and wait. I’m aging.

The most basic tasks have become tedious brain busters; complex and time consuming. I don’t give up. I have crawled, rolled, hopped and scooted for hours. On moving day my Fitbit registered 6.7 thousand steps on one foot. (clapping)

At moments I’m like a toddler who can’t move her blocks. I’m ramming a box furiously with my crutch and it’s not budging. I want to run away but I’m stuck so I fume and fuss and scream inside.
And I cry; a good cry or three or ten might help.
Tears in front of my friends, my children, my husband. Tears, tears, tears.
What’s wrong with Mama?
Help me, God.

Silence.
No one can rescue me.
No one can relieve the pressure inside and comfort me.
Venting brings relief, but then I feel guilty for ‘complaining.’

I’m not depressed. I’m hindered.
Activity is my personal drug of choice.
Serving is what I AM not just what I do.
I am being denied my SELF. My identity. My very wiring is being blocked.
I’M SHORTING OUT. LIKE AN ELECTRICAL IMPLOSION.
Poof.

“Oh, Denise, enjoy the rest, read a book!”
As if I’m in my home where everything is in its place. No. I’m sitting in the middle of chaos where my stuff is out of reach, still in boxes – in the vast unknown – in my storage unit across town.
My body may be ‘resting,’ but inside I chuurrn.

This temporary double break in my foundation is not without purpose.
Introspection.
Thinking. Asking hard questions inside my head. What is this about? What am I supposed to see and change that needs to be addressed? I don’t waste experiences. I need to know.
Is this the proverbial winepress? Am I the grapes? Is this where all the good stuff comes out?

Some good stuff next time. Stay tuned… (Click here for the next installment From the Winepress)