Somebody Wrote On My Knee

The bandage is off (temporarily). I've found the incisions and the initials left behind on my kneecap. Mine, I remember from right before they gave me the "This-Will-Make-You-Relax" medicine - I scrawled "BB" on my kneecap (yeah, I forgot about the new married name again...) and a smiley face. At some point, somebody else wrote the word "YES" and signed their initials as well.

On my knee.

It's all a little weird, isn't it? It's the whole anesthesia-out-of-control thing. My family is reminding me of things of which I have no memory since Wednesday. And somebody wrote on my knee. And I don't remember.

Lindsay and Melissa stopped by today with Brusters and Starbucks treats and big hugs. Lindsay and I work together at PCC on the Creative Arts team. I asked her, "So what's happened in the last few days?" She replied, "Well, not much. We missed you. But that's all."

I looked up. She was cheery and relaxed.

"You mean the world didn't stop spinning without me?"

No, indeed. It did not.

As I've weaned off the Percocet and spent a bit more time with my wits about me, I've struggled to reorient myself to this: doing nothing. Just being still, honoring the healing process, letting people fetch things for me. Just being.

Why is this so hard for me?

I finished a book - not a deeply introspective spiritual tome. Nothing related to creativity or the new social media revolution. Mom brought by Jan Karon's latest, In the Company of Others. The most recent addition to the Father Tim series of stories about a priest, his late-in-life love and the people he encounters. It's simple and true and honest and just plain good.

I cried when it ended. I cried when I watched footage of the earthquake and the tsunami in Japan. I cried watching Nadya Sulemann get reamed out by Suzie Orman on Oprah Winfrey.

I wondered if I had been home alone too long, or if Percocet had some sort of latent crying side effect.

Here's the thing: I'm alone, the house is still and quiet and I feel like I am just now, after three days of forced stillness, starting to grasp what it means to be. Just to be. I've laid here and wondered what I do with every breath, with every moment of my life that seems so crammed full of busyness that all I do is go go go go go go go. Until I collapse.

I'm missing some balance. And I've been here before. Grateful for the quiet of this very moment, I am going to lean into this stillness and wring out of it...absolutely nothing. Because it is enough to just lay here on the couch, prop up my knee and be grateful that the pain has subsided, and wait. Soon enough the door will fly open and Shannon and David will burst into the house. The stillness will be broken.

I want to remain whole.