Officially official

I officially have a WIP. Scratch that; I have two. Never expected to officially have one, one I’m really fleshing out, let alone two!! One is a children’s book, one is a novel.
I’m excited. Excited to get this dream of mine on paper, excited to get these books out of my brain and in ink. Or, well, in pencil and on the computer. Or note cards for now. Fleshing things out from there is weird, but it’s working nicely.
Dreams are funny, especially those that may seem impossible to attain; it takes a lot of heart and sweat and boatloads of motivation and little sleep. I need to find that extra motivation around – the fact that I am able to carry around one of my WIPs with me wherever I go helps.
And to that note, while I wait for my car, time to work on it.

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On healing: 7 weeks out

Today is (finally) Friday.

I had my first physical therapy visit a week ago Wednesday, my second yesterday, and I have  my third today. When I saw the doctor last (May 2), I was one day short of 5 weeks past surgery date. He wanted me done with the crutches by May 9, and out of the walking boot by May 23. I would be able to drive shortly after May 23. At that point I was still relying on the crutches completely, as I was being a good girl and following directions.

Well, that information set me free. I have been working from home since February 13, and the last time I drove was February 12. I had had enough. By May 4 I was finished with the crutches, and I haven’t used the walking boot since May 11. I will be practicing driving Saturday (in an empty parking lot), to make sure that my ankle will tolerate it.

I have been seeing the same physical therapist for the past 6 years (not just the same practice, but also the same therapist – he knows my joints quite well by now), and today I will be starting at a new practice. Because I have not been able to drive, my awesome husband has been chauffeuring me around for the past 3 months. To be honest, we’re both tired of it. However, it has to be done. Anyway. The new PT location is a mere 15 minutes away, whereas the old PT location is about an hour away, next to my office. It was perfect when I would go to PT then go directly to work – it cut down on the commute time significantly. But since I’m working out of the house (for another couple weeks), I can’t lose half of a day due to commuting and PT. It’s not quite convenient.

I’m nervous about seeing a new physical therapist, because Dave – the old one – knows me so well, and we have a good friendship as well. We talk books, we talk munchkin and his kids, we talk life. He gets it. He knows me. How will it be with this next person? Will we end up with a good camaraderie, or will I simply go to physical therapy, do my exercises, report on how I’m feeling, and go home? I spend so much time in physical therapy – in the past 6 years, the longest I went NOT in physical therapy was from February (or was it March?) 2011 to now. I spent 6 months straight at one point going to PT at least once a week. It’s just what happens when I so easily injure myself (I’m working on that).

I spent 20 minutes by myself with munchkin Monday night (while he was awake) – the first time I had done that in 2 months – followed by a couple hours later on that same evening (while he was asleep). It was nice to be able to have the ability to take care of munchkin on my own, and to know that I was trusted enough to do it.

***Fast forward 3.5 hours***

I had PT this morning with a new therapist, Justin. Things were very different from the last place. Old PT is one big room with lots of tables, and nothing is quiet. New PT is lots of little rooms for consults, and then one big room for exercises. At first I thought  – Hey! this isn’t normal. It’s weird! – but then I realized I preferred it. I don’t need everyone knowing my business. There was one other huge difference. Whenever I went to old PT, I made sure to bring a book because I was often on my own for a bit icing or with heat. For an hour appointment, I would really only have Dave to myself for about 15 minutes, and it was definitely not 15 minutes straight through. If I needed to ask a question, I had to either wait until he wasn’t with a different patient, or had to interrupt. I don’t know why they book every 20-30 minutes if appointments last 60. With new guy – Justin – I had him to myself. He worked with me, and I had his full attention the entire time. It was a great change. Justin also focused on things that are going to get me back to where I need to be more quickly, and better – I know all physical therapists are different, but it seemed like new PT had a better handle on what I need to recover to the best of my ability.

So here I am, 7 weeks out from surgery, walking in sneakers, and really in a much better place than I ever anticipated. I’m happy, healthy, and on the right track to being 100% healed.

What have you done better than you ever expected you could?

Nostalgia

Paris has always held a special place in my heart: the lights, the language, the romance of it all. Even before I knew what most of it was, I loved anything French – pastries, berets, anything that was typically French.

I spent most of my childhood listening to my mother, her siblings, and my grandmother – her mother – speak French when my sisters or I were around. It was their way of communicating over us – we had no idea what was being said. Hearing the melodic flowing of sounds made me want to learn the language, if only to know what they were saying. It was my first link to anything French, anything Parisian, and I loved it.

Once I entered junior high – 7th grade – I had my first opportunity to take French classes. I loved it. Classes were relatively short – 45 minutes a day – but it was worth it. I picked it up relatively quickly, and continued through high school. I would read anything that referred to Paris or to France, however remote the reference. I lived for those escapes into the country, the city of my dreams, but never thought I would see it firsthand.

My first year of college, I took a semester of conversational French. I got okay – not great, definitely not fluent. But it continued my knowledge of the language. That semester I decided to change my major from English to Biology; at that point, I knew that I would no longer be able to take any further French courses. I had taken 6.5 years of the language, and I could hold a decent conversation. I enjoyed speaking in French, and luckily found that the French Club at my college took trips to Montréal and to Québec City on a regular basis (one per semester). It wasn’t France, but it was an opportunity to speak the language in a foreign place, and a chance to travel a little bit.

My sophomore year, I was still a part of the French club, and had since enjoyed two trips to Québec City, and one to Montréal. The first semester of my sophomore year was difficult – I was taking multiple science courses and a math course, in addition to two other required classes. I had no options for any additional French class. That fall, a friend mentioned that there was a meeting she wanted to attend for the study abroad program. It was something that I had never considered, but I decided to go with her, just to lend support.

I left the meeting determined to spend the following spring in France.

The only difficulty would be in convincing my parents that it would be a good opportunity, that I would be fine, that it would be worth it.

One weekend in the fall of 2002, I went back home. I had been thinking about how best to approach my parents, but I didn’t have the guts to do it. I finally cornered my parents in the laundry room, and told them that I wanted to spend the next semester in France. I had the paperwork, I had the information, I had the details. It wouldn’t cost anything extra (except spending money for traveling), and my loans and scholarships would cover everything; I even would get a stipend for food. My parents gave a collective sigh of relief – I later found out that they had caught on to my following them around the house (which I didn’t realize I had even been doing), and thought that I was going to tell them that I was pregnant. The desire to spend a semester abroad was a much easier discussion to have.

I left for France in early January 2003. January 3. I spent 4 months with awesome people; we took classes, drank beer, explored Le Mans, traveled Europe, and ate wonderful food. I saw Paris, London, Rome, Amsterdam, and multiple parts of Ireland, and it wasn’t enough.

Paris was astounding. The lights, the sounds, the smells, the food – it was all as I had hoped, had expected, had dreamed of for so long – and it was more. I enjoyed the touristy areas more than the less-populated areas, mainly because I had a mere 4 days in Paris, and who can see all of Paris in 4 days? Certainly not I. I saw some things that I will return to (La Tour Eiffel, L’Arc de Triomphe, Montmartre, La Cathédrale Notre Dame, La Basilique du Sacré Coeur de Montmartre), and some that I won’t (Les Catacombs). I would love the opportunity to walk through the streets of Paris with no destination, no deadlines, no need to be somewhere by a certain time.

I wanted more time; I wanted to travel more; I wanted to see more of the world. I had originally planned to extend my stay, but in early April, my grandfather fell and his health took a severe downturn. Instead, I left with the group on April 28th, the original departure date.

It has been just over 10 years now since I left France. I haven’t been back since (though I was able to score incredibly cheap non-stop flights to London from Boston, and spent New Year 2004-2005 in London with my mother); I haven’t been back to Québec City or Montréal, either. I transferred schools (and changed my major again) when I returned from studying abroad, and squeezed a full degree program into two years. I had zero time for French courses (though the school I ended up at didn’t have them anyway, just French 101 and 102 – the basics).

My mother doesn’t speak French anymore. My grandmother passed away 19 years ago, my mother’s brother – the one she spoke French with the most – passed away 17 years ago. There’s nobody for her to speak French with, and she has forgotten most of it.

Life has changed, has interfered.

I no longer speak much French; I have nobody to speak with. I am currently using an app to attempt to brush up on some of my vocabulary, but it’s not the same. I just don’t remember much of the language.

What had always brought me such joy now leads to such an intense longing, such heartache. I watched Midnight in Paris recently, not for the first time. I had purchased it unseen, and I have since watched it numerous times. It is one of my favorites. It reminds me that life is short, but there is such history. Where we walk, many others have walked in the past. Where we live, others have lived. Where we love, others have loved. We will never be the first to do something, nor will we be the last. But watching Midnight in Paris has reminded me that because of choices I have made – choices I would not change for the world – I will not be returning to Paris anytime soon.

I love Paris.

I crave Paris.

But I can’t have Paris.

I will continue to watch Paris in television shows and movies, and read of it in novels. I will continue to admire from afar, and someday… someday, I will return.