If you asked me two months ago who my mortal enemy was I’d of likely had a snarky response along the lines of, “the calories in a poutine.”
These days it’s closer to the curb of a sidewalk or store doors that don’t have automatic openers. Both are something I’d never paid much attention to before my accident.
Since breaking my femur and tibia in late September, I found myself primarily using a wheelchair to gain access to the outside world. Following a grueling two-week stay in the Red Deer Hospital, the battle with the aforementioned curbs and doors began. I quickly learned how inaccessible the world around me was.
Fighting alongside the curbs and doors were stairs, cooking for myself, trying to find a position to sit or lay that didn’t land me in uncontrollable pain and not being able to drive or work. The general in the army I found myself fighting was irrefutably my own mind. This commander-in-chief was no weak foe. The mental battle a self-described workaholic must face when left with no work is one I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.
Living in a rural location with the closest town 20 minutes away isn’t an easy task on the best of days when one has two working legs. I found myself on bed rest, unable to drive and barely able to maneuver my own home, even with the help of my wheelchair and a walker.
I had experienced the stages of grief in the past through the loss of loved ones, but having never broken any bones prior, I was unaware the term was applicable to post-fracture care.
Denial came as I was lying at the bottom of the ravine where I had landed after crashing my electric scooter.
“There’s no way my leg is broken. There’s just absolutely no way I could’ve been so stupid - I have to work tomorrow,” I pleaded to myself.
The ambulance arrived followed by Fire and Rescue to lift me from the muddy mess I’d found myself in. Upon arriving at the hospital, the second stage hit me - anger.
Anger in a lot of ways barely begins to describe the emotion I felt. I was angry for a number of different reasons, but above all I was angry with myself.
Bargaining came next. At first, it was bargaining with the staff of the hospital to let me out. I felt trapped and pleaded with the doctors to let me go home not knowing that when I got home, an entirely different demon awaited me. It was here that I would beg my husband to put me out of my misery.
I found myself ill-equipped mentally to deal with the level of pain and isolation I felt. That’s when the depression settled in. I clung to the words of King Solomon from the 1852 fable, ‘Solomon’s Seal’. A sultan asks King Solomon for a sentence that would be true in good or bad times. Solomon replies, “This too shall pass away.”
I held on tight to these words - repeating them daily, if not even hourly at times. Sure enough, a glimmer of hope appeared in the form of a phone call from a good friend and former colleague. Her reporter was going on maternity leave and she needed someone to work remotely for a few months.
Finally, the final stage - acceptance. The doom and gloom that had graced my plate for the last two months has been replaced with a grand sense of gratitude. I am once more grateful for my friends, family and particularly Miss Leah Bousfield who reached out and granted me the opportunity to fill Carlie Sanderson’s shoes as she takes her sabbatical.
I look forward to getting to know the community during this time and am grateful for the opportunity to do so.