Today I woke up to a mysteriously injured hip. The old rage, at everything unfair, was inflamed as my hip joint. I had rested after a long week of birthday fun. I rested more than I normally would and still I woke up in agony. Granted, I ran around quite a bit this week and then took the kids to a theme park over the weekend (in celebration of Isaac getting into his first choice magnet middle school), but 48 full hours later the pain was all in one joint. Do you know what it's like when your "good hip" hurts? Oye. Unfortunately, I have to severely limit my use of over the counter anti-inflammatory medicine so as not to upset another medical issue. It made for a long weepy morning and I am no wuss.
I ran around and wore myself out, than ran around with the kids (in the wheelchair) and I rested almost a full 12hrs prior to today. I was fine for a a whole day. The day it didn't matter. The day it was up to me what I got done. Now, the day after that one I get out of bed unable to bear weight on my right leg at all. Minimum doses of anti-inflammatory later, no change. I was frustrated and scared. What if I had really done it? What if my I'd blown out my good hip? It was too terrible to consider.
I confessed the gravity of the situation to Mike, but I wasn't about to give up on my day. Especially, after I gave my ungrateful punk of a body yesterday "off." No dice. I had plans to volunteer at an event at Riley's school. The hip pain would NOT win. It was the same situation I've been through a million times except I wasn't just tired or just in pain I couldn't step down on my good hip. Again, how is this at all fair? I over did it, then rested, then over did it and then rested. How can it hurt this much? Why today?
I babied it earlier in the day. By the time I had to head out I discovered wearing my braces and shoes helped a bit. I sucked it up, and hobbled to Riley's school with more weight on my crutches than either leg. I don't think anyone noticed my wincing or perspiration given all the hustle and bustle. I was able to slide into a tiny chair and craft my way to distraction. It was school-wide hub bub so there was a lot to take my mind off the evil presence in my joint. Nobody seemed the wiser, especially Riley.
I smiled as I guided her classmates through my craft station and the merrily escorted Riley through the others. In my head, however, it was a checklist: Craft One-check, You can do this. Breathe, Craft Two-check, Ok, wrapping it up. Turn in Card-check, Pick up Book-check, Hang in there. Breathe. Pick up Cookie-check and We're outta Here-check. I made it, without cheating Riley or her classmates out of any part of the experience. I got home, dictated some directions and collapsed until bath time.
It wasn't the first time and it won't be the last. It was just a more extreme example. I prefer to fight through pain that comes and goes or can be largely ignored, but when your eyes well up with tears every time you take a step it's a whole other level of pushing through. I suspect, all mothers have a sense that their children have no idea how much they fight and sacrifice for them.
I remember going through some nasty pre-term labor with Riley and a good friend assuring me she'd be happy to recant all I went through to bring this kid into existence when she's an ungrateful teenager. My children have no idea how many times I've wanted to check out and instead found myself in an "above-and-beyond" situation. They shouldn't know about it, not when I can fight and be there. Now and then they need, to know that I need my feet up or a request is just too much at the moment, but I don't want them to ever feel guilty for wanting me around. Someday they won't. I'll never be sorry for overdoing it, if I've been able to make memories with my rapidly growing kids. Now, cleaning is a different story...no one wants basketball sized swollen knees from scrubbing floors and tubs. I pick my battles, not always as well as I should, but I do.
For now happy faces have to be my thanks.