Tomorrow is the eight week anniversary of the broken ankle incident. Progress has been made--I drove for the first time today. I'm walking in a brace and standing without it. I can cook again. I can ride the stationery bike at the gym. I've reintroduced awkward and gawky spontaneous dance parties back into my life. I can get into and out of the shower, and I can sleep in the same bed with my husband. (The bed is high.)
I cannot, however, run. Which means I may lose out on a fifth role. The others have stung. This one hurts. I looked up depressive symptoms, however, and I don't have them. So I believe I'm sad (not unhappy--that's different), frustrated and disappointed. Which, under the circumstances, are perfectly reasonable.
As my brother said, if all this is happening, it has to be happening for some reason. I have to agree with him, if only because if all this wasn't happening to me, I'd say exactly the same thing.