Despite being advised not to rush the grieving process, and despite having more leeway to wallow in it than most people may have, I am shoring up my defenses, and acting like an adult. At least, that's what I'm trying to do. I'm still very freaked out by the lack of Siamese howling every time I enter a room, and I haven't quite stopped expecting to hear violent sneezing all day. The echoes of his noises are still here, but they are already fading. It makes me sad all over again to know that someday, I will forget exactly what he sounded like. I'm shamelessly taking advantage of the confusion of the remaining cats. They don't want to leave me alone. Even Athena has been unusually well-behaved, like she thinks Torden's disappearance was banishment. She barely bit me all day.
It was easier to venture out and take care of my obligations today. I took my car back to the dealer, so they could remove the nail I drove over (I can't remember, was this the second or third time I've done this in the last year?), and I made it to the post office to return my mother's car keys that took a plane ride home with me (whoops). They are baby steps toward normalcy, and I will take them.
I have extolled the virtues of physical therapy on so many occasions, and I feel compelled to do it again. It was 1995 when I had an embarrassing accident, working out on an aerobic step (back when they were considered cool), when my ankle buckled, and I flew backwards. I smacked my back across a wooden beam, knocking the wind out of me, and I woke to the sound of my housemate screaming for her boyfriend to call 911 when she couldn't rouse me. Ever since, I've had a rib that just won't behave like it is supposed to. Bones did a "spring test," essentially poking along my spine until he landed exactly on that impact point, and said he found an area of resistance. It has been inflexible and prone to pain for nearly 20 years, and a good physical therapist (which I have) can find it like it has a neon sign pointing to it. One quick, sudden shove later, and I could breathe again. After all this time, it might take a couple more of those adjustments to stay loose, but for the first time in an exceptionally long time, I have the expectation that it will get better. I couldn't come across Bones until the time was right, but I can't help but mourn for the good skeletal health I could have had, if he had come along sooner. Now that I have had the opportunity to compare where physical therapy was back in 2002 to the complex plane on which it exists now, I must impress upon all of you: if you find yourself needing to choose between physical therapy versus painkillers and surgery, pick the PT! Don't give up and think that opiates are the answer. Healing is worth the effort.
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