Five Weeks of Progress and Setbacks

It's been a while.
Five weeks, to be exact.
I know this because I check Jessica's blog roll on a regular basis and I have been watching my previous post sink lower and lower until it is sitting on the bottom of a few of my favorite blogs.
This is unacceptable...especially since I have had an INSANE five weeks to speak of.

On Oct. 22, I had the worst day of my life (and very karma-oriented). The only Wednesday soccer game of the season was that night and I normally have class, but instead I decided to take the night off and play soccer. The game started rather normally--we were losing, but I was having fun and getting some exercise. On no particular play, I planted my left foot to change directions, while pushing off of it to go the other way. The foot stayed planted and my knee went with my body. After hearing (and feeling) a resounding "POP," I doubled over.
I couldn't do anything but not breathe and lay there, sobbing. I was in the middle of the field, crying like a baby. I knew something big was wrong. I could feel it in my bones.
It took a long time to get myself to the point that I could even move. I was paralyzed. I couldn't move a single muscle. I had to be carried off the field...I couldn't even hop. I have never felt that level of pain in my life.
The only thing I could think was, "Please, no one call an ambulance. I can't afford an ambulance."
The woman watching from the sidelines said she heard the pop and knew it wasn't just sprained. She wrapped me up in a blanket, put some ice on my knee and sat with me, telling me to calm down and breathe while the rest of the team finished the game.
I didn't want to go to the hospital. I wanted to go home and cry... be a baby on my own terms, in the privacy of my own home. But I let her talk me into going to the emergency room, then called my brother to come meet me and drive my car.
Michelle helped me into my car and drove me to MountainView while my brother picked up my Aunt Pam and met me at the hospital emergency room. Meanwhile, my friend Bre was calling me and I answered, clearly shaken up. Being the great friend that I know and love, she met me at the hospital, blanket and magazines in hand. We waited there for an unreasonably long time, three hours, just to be treated like crap by the tech who talked to Bre like she was a child and who treated me like an idiot when I couldn't walk on the crutches properly.
*On a side note: People may argue that Grey's Anatomy creates a false sense of how hot doctors can be, but I assert that they speak the truth. In the ER that night, while I was looking like hell with mascara smeared on my cheeks, smelly jersey smell and looking like a hot mess, were three of the cutest guys I have come across in my years here in Las Cruces. All three tall, handsome, doctors...McDreamy, McSteamy and McSexy.
*End Side Note
McSexy looked at my knee, gave me some bull about it being a little loose, but couldn't get me in for an MRI because I wasn't "emergent." I was stuck with a knee immobilizing brace, crutches, an order for an MRI and a prescription for Vicodin. At 1 a.m., I limped out of the ER and into a waiting car, completely angry that I sat in the ER for nothing. By this time, I was doubting even myself on whether there was something actually wrong with me. I felt like I was just being a weenie, that it was simply a sprain and that all the struggle was just in my head.
Pam and Jono dropped me off at home, with my Vicodin, and tucked me into bed. I took a whole pill and fell into an uncomfortable sleep, setting my alarm for early since I was still having to get up and go to school to proctor an exam and the professor I assist was out of town.
I woke up with the alarm, incredulous that most of the night before had actually happened. I hobbled around my apartment quite awkwardly, and turned on the shower. I got undressed and gingerly got in, using the built-in handles that were conveniently placed inside the shower for moments such as this. As I stepped in under the warm water and lathered up my hair with shampoo, I felt faint. I fell out of the shower, onto the bathroom floor, hitting the right side of my chest on God knows what, tasting the soap that had dripped from my head onto my lips and thinking to myself, "You have to rinse off. Get up."
I picked myself up off the floor, giving myself a pep talk all the way up, with awkward movements, trying to avoid the debilitating pain in my knee. I stood upright, attempting to rinse my hair out so I could get out of the shower and get back in bed. Instead, I went down again, this time scraping my back on the corner of the vanity, holding the shower curtain in my hands and sobbing, again telling myself, "You can do it. Just get up."
I did, and felt a little better. I rinsed my hair out, turned the now cold shower off, then toweled off and hobbled to my bed and curled up. I called Pam, sobbing, as she tried to reassure me the best she could. I thought about the medicine I had taken and realized I took the pain pills on an empty stomach, which led to the episode in the shower. I grabbed a bag of gold fish, munching on them until I regained a sense of normalcy.
I got ready for class, waiting for Jono to pick me up. I went to class, proctored the exam and crutched my way upstairs, where I crumbled in a fit of exhaustion and complete depression over the entire situation. I was in pain, I was whiny, I was no fun to be around, so I called Jono and had him come pick me up to take me home. He bought be a burrito and dropped me off at my house, where I fell into a pain killer-induced sleep.
The next day, I underwent an MRI and on Monday, found out from a phenomenal Dr. Wayne Lindsey that I had torn my Anterior Cruciate Ligament (ACL) and damaged my miniscus. I would have to undergo surgery in the coming weeks, when the swelling went down, to have it repaired.
The surgery happens next Thursday, Nov. 20, and I have never been more nervous about anything in my life. It's not the surgery itself, because that's more procedural and they do these sort of things all the time. It's that I will be out of commission for days afterwards. Worse than hobbling around my apartment...this time there will be screws and cadaver ligaments involved, along with physical therapy and a recovery time of three to six months. So, the fear is not in being cut open, it's in being a normal, functioning adult after the big day.
Setbacks are sometimes the universe's way of saying, "Slow down. I'm in charge." Well, universe--you got me where you want me.