A post of a different color….

Easing back out into public is always a challenge. Hard to integrate back in, doesn’t seem to matter why you were in solitude, it is difficult to acclimate to the warp and woof of people.

I am eight weeks post-op and in a shoe everyday now. Kinda tripping that in two days I am going to do this all over again with the other foot. But, I am choosing to have the surgeries, note that – my choice to care for my body which has been telling me for a long time that it hurt. People say that they didn’t even know that I had bad feet, well because I choose to not talk about my feet.

So it really pissed me off this morning when someone told me rather condescendingly that wasn’t it good that I could take the time to recover properly, thought it extraordinary that I was in a shoe so soon, this person knew of other people who had difficult surgeries, but you know…they couldn’t take the time to recover, they had important jobs. They just couldn’t take the time like I could.  Isn’t that nice.  Yeah, I lead a privileged life, everything is just so damn peachy and thank goodness my little job that I left wasn’t important.

I seethed inside.  We were on our way up to put a Christmas wreath on our dead son’s grave, just a bonus morning all around. We stood in the cold fog staring at his name on cold stone. Yeah, we be living large.  Isn’t it nice.

Do not condescend to tell me that my life, my job is not important. Do not paste on a superior smile and wish me well. You don’t know me. No, I am not working now. Yes, I stepped back to care for my feet. No, I don’t work full-time. You want to know why? I rarely share, but since you assumed that how and where I spend my time was not “important”, I will tell you.

Our son who died had over six surgeries on his feet. No, not the same issue as my feet.  He had congenital birth defects. Went through three autonomous bone graphs, that’s where they carve chunks out of your hips and shins to rebuild your feet. He had four inch screws through his heels. It was my privilege as his mother to care for him. If I had been kicking corporate butt, who would have cared for him? Physical therapy, weeks of immobility, you can’t really screw around with multiple bone graphs and hard casts. I chose him.  He was important. Really sucks that he is dead now, what a waste of time, right? I mean really, he died anyway in some car, I could have had a “real” job all those years, done something more important.

I was a partner is a small restaurant and store while the boys were small. Our mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the store suffered from our absence…she was more important. We chose her.

We are in debt, we have a second mortgage, only one working shower, need a ceiling replaced, we don’t take vacations. Doug and I haven’t been away since 2001. That’s eleven years if you are doing the math. It is our choice, I ain’t bitching, I ain’t complaining, and we are not unhappy. I have volunteered most of my life, but that isn’t a “real” job, it isn’t important, you get no money, no promotions, and sometimes you can get ulcers…but that isn’t important. Why would anyone chose to do that?

Yeah, I am taking time to let my feet recover, and my sainted husband is working himself to death providing for my surgeon, physical therapy, bon bons, and cable TV – he is nice like that…guess he has chosen me.

If there is a God, if there is a heaven, I have always thought that God would not say to me “Well done, you really kicked some corporate butt, your sales figures were through the roof!  Atta girl.  And when you got that promotion, I put your picture up on the highest cloud!”  I always pictured, and perhaps I am just showing how stupid I am, but I always hoped that God, as my heavenly Father, would have held me close and whispered, “You know when you held your momma as she bled out, I saw Myself in you, I could see a family resemblance.”  Childish fancies perhaps. Wishful thinking, empty hope.

To all you women, young mothers, old mothers, who have experienced the supercilious condescension of another for choosing a single salary, or a reduced salary, hold firm to your path.  Justin lies dead in the ground, so does my mother – but I have no regrets, no guilt, I chose them.

To all of you who show the brazen courage to take care of your health, even if you are made to feel guilty, or somehow of less importance, take the time to nurture your body. There is no shame is weakness, there is no shame in suffering.  There is no shame in being poor and unimportant.  It is a shame to think that you are the center of the universe.