You might know I have been struggling with a broken leg that rapidly developed some rather ... unusual ... complications this last year, resulting in three surgeries, a VERY odd infusion, and more money spent on taxis than I care to count. Me (and my poor family) have been thru the wringer, and I've been pretty severely depressed this year.
Welp, I got some new bad news today which means bad bone stuff going on happening into next year. And to be frank, it killed me. Just killed me.
This last weekend I scrambled around FRANTICALLY, trying to find something or someone to be strong for me, because all my strength was gone. Tell me that it would be okay, that I would make it. I am the mama, and the wife, right? I have to be okay. But all my fight had trickled away, and I was stuck looking at myself as a thirty-MUMBLE something, with a house, a job wanting me back, an energetic baby expecting 120% and a VERY long-suffering husband who needed me there for him too. You know, a life? Yeah. I'd gradually moved away from having one this last year.
And today, as I sat on my sofa reeling from the thought of more things being done to me that I wasn't sure I wanted, I realized something very important: I was sick of rolling over. Sick of letting others determine what is best for me and my leg, sick of not checking into what they want to do, sick. Sick, sick, sick.
I had this feeling a lot when I was writing, back before I was published. The "I can't TAKE another rejection" or "that critter must be smoking CRACK to not like what I wrote there! Hello!" but as Jim Butcher so eloquently (and recently) said, there ain't no free lunch.
I was done, pilgrim. The line had been crossed.
I would need to become an expert, just as I had to with my writing career. I could beat this with the right materials, the right background. The right doctors. And as I sat staring at my husband at our dinner table I felt a bit of ... strength, come back in. Purpose. I mean, it's gotten as bad as it can get, right, so what can I do? I can roll the eff over or I can meet this puppy head-on. And I'm done rolling, so I guess there's no other solution. I didn't let anybody tell me no about my writing, so why start with the leg? No way. And you shouldn't either, but that's a post for another day.
So since this isn't just an "author" blog, but "my" blog, I'm looking for answers. I want to know if you know orthopedists, bone docs, or anybody that has experience with bone cysts in long bones.
Because I'm dang dong done with it. The game is ON.