Fall means a season of follow ups, and usually a mix of emotions.
The emotions are still there, but I’ll get to that later, or not.
The follow ups are still there, and they will be for the foreseeable future, but they’re different.
I was sitting in an exam room waiting, actually I was staring at the sink, when I thought of a poem.
Yes, I was waiting a long time. Yes, I do get philosophical the longer I wait.
I remembered waiting to be told I had healed enough that I could stand up, and then feeling pain shoot up my legs as they took on my body weight. It was pain, the very reason why I put myself though all of this, but it was different pain, and I was happy about it.
As the weeks of rehab turned into months my feelings towards standing went from happiness to anger, as happened in every stage of my recovery process.
Every follow up I’d wait, and wish someone would find something that would make me better, a more improved version, faster.
That never happened, at least not yet. And no one ever declared me “recovered,” not officially, that came with some self-acceptance.
I sat in the exam room, again, but with a different expectation.
The expectation of normal.
“Normal is nice,” I kept thinking.
And it was, the follow up went as I expected, and I wasn’t upset or overly happy over it.
It was normal, and it felt nice, to be OK with this (not so) new phase of my life.
Regardless of how you feel about standing, normal is a nice place to be.
Defining normal, that’s the hard part.