People are all too eager to inform you about the stages of grieving when you're grieving. Anger, denial, sadness, insomnia, denial again, an inexplicable hatred of all men named Fred... I can see the indignation sweep across many of your faces as you point out to the computer screen that I just totally made up that last one. You sure about that though? My grieving process distinctly includes a phase where I downright distrust anyone named Fred. I guess that phase is only part of the Marisa-specific grieving process.
I am a certified expert by now in the phases of the shoulder-wound-healing process by now, at least as it pertains to me. Almost every day as the healing process progresses, I notice a change in my personality. Conveniently enough, each emotional state through which I've gone thus far can be personified by a Winnie-the-Pooh character. If you are unaware of who this "Winnie" fellow is, and you're scratching your head as you wonder why part of his name contains a colloquial term for feces, you can go ahead and stop reading. This rest of this post will make no sense to you. Also I'm really sad for your childhood if that is the case.
The first few days of my injury, I was Winnie the Pooh himself. He is kindly described by his own best friend Christopher Robin (annoyingly, a kid with two first names and actually a bit of a bully) as a "bear with very little brain," simply because he is blissfully unaware of bees and the hardships of life in general. I walked around in a Winnie-like state, convinced that this shoulder thing was nothing bad and would be healed by a magical woodland fairy and I'd be back climbing in no time. I was much like the lovable cartoon in the episode where he is hurled face first into the hole of a tree where he gets stuck but is completely unconcerned by that since the little tree cave is full of honey, his favorite food (how does he not have type two diabetes?). A bear with a higher IQ may have freaked the F*** out at the revelation that there was limited oxygen in there, and feel panicked and claustrophobic and almost certainly as if death were coming considering the unlikelihood that his friends could get him out of such an insane place with enough time to save him from suffocation. In fact, now I am freaking out about that episode because that is how it ENDS! With Winnie stuck in a honey hole at the top of a MASSIVE oak tree!! I assume he got down safely because he is in the next story. That Christopher Robin has a messed up imagination. Time to take that kid to a child psychiatrist.
So about three days in, I found I was still lying on the couch in a sling, and that there was no magical woodland fairy, and I was still not climbing. The blissful unawareness of Winnie quickly gave way to the extreme depression of Eeyore, the sawdust-filled donkey toy with a bow and nail pinning his own tail to his ass (the guy has good reason to be low). I suddenly noticed with shocking definition the intensity of the rainclouds outside. I realized that not only would my shoulder never heal, but that I would never climb again. Dark circles moved into the spaces for lease underneath my eyes with no intention of ever leaving their posts. I was my shoulder injury, nothing was good or even less than horrible, and life as I knew it was over. I was Eeyore. Inconsolable, always beneath an ominous raincloud, and on auto-pilot to ensure my doubt about whether or not a morning was good when anyone pointed out that it was.
I wasn't angry. Rather, I had fallen into a pit of depression as deep as a well out of which I could not see. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. I felt too sad to do anything other than mope about the things I used to have that were good, and would never be good again. Everyone and everything sucked. This character was probably another indication that Christopher Robin needed some serious help. My Eeyore phase lasted a couple of days, days that passed like a snail through molasses as I stared out the window entranced by the never ending rain.
In the next stage I morphed into a character who didn't technically exist in the Hundred Acre Wood (why does that sound dirty?), but potentially could have. I was still Eeyore, but angry Eeyore. Eeyore with turrets, if you will. My response to "good morning" would be to lash out angrily and argue that this morning not only wasn't good, but was horrible just like whoever it was who wished me a "good morning". Then I might grab Piglet by the ears and throw him against a wall. Anyone else want to wish me a good morning?! Huh!? I didn't think so. I wonder if Eeyore ever DID finally lose his mind and get angry behind the scenes. Maybe now he is sitting in an asylum in a straight jacket, rocking back and forth with eyes wide muttering something about how his whole life could have been different if that jerk Christopher finally gave him a tail that didn't require re-pinning fifteen times an hour. Sorry if I just ruined Eeyore for you with that disturbing image. What I meant to say was.... Eeyore finally got some Prozac and went to live with his cousin in upstate New York. He became a motivational speaker and lived happily ever after.
I could have gone another direction and compared my angry phase of shoulder healing to feeling like Rabbit. Christopher clearly gave up any and all attempts to be creative with that name. Maybe that's why Rabbit was so pissed- he just wanted to be called Eugene. Or even simpler, Bill. Anything but a description of what he was. How would you feel if people walked around calling you Boy Child, Christopher!? Inconsiderate kid... Ugh. Anyways, Rabbit was always pissed with good reason because ignorant wistful Pooh would steal all of his honey and then the rest of his food, and other characters ruined his garden "by accident" or would piss him off some other way when he just wanted peace and quiet and to be called by an actual name. Do you blame the rodent?!
Today I've entered the next stage, which is the phase where I feel slight improvement in my injury and am therefore falsely hopeful and potentially about to do something stupid, like climb. I guess that would be Tigger? He was always causing trouble, that guy, and bringing others with him on his irresponsible endeavors (he was probably 100% responsible for the corruption of Roo- you don't even WANT to know what happened later in the life of the annoying infant Aussie pest- there may be a documentary about child actors whose lives went to hell in which he is featured. Proceed with caution.). At least he narrowly missed becoming another "Rabbit"- he probably only got his name because Christopher Robin sucked at spelling or speaking, and actually meant to call him Tiger. Close call, Tigger- count your blessings.
You know, as long as I never become Owl, the pedantic jerk who thinks he is all knowing and really just gives horrible advice, I'm happy to continue going through the emotions of cartoon characters from Winnie the Pooh. Oh, I also never want to be Christopher Robin. That kid is the WORST.
I am a certified expert by now in the phases of the shoulder-wound-healing process by now, at least as it pertains to me. Almost every day as the healing process progresses, I notice a change in my personality. Conveniently enough, each emotional state through which I've gone thus far can be personified by a Winnie-the-Pooh character. If you are unaware of who this "Winnie" fellow is, and you're scratching your head as you wonder why part of his name contains a colloquial term for feces, you can go ahead and stop reading. This rest of this post will make no sense to you. Also I'm really sad for your childhood if that is the case.
The first few days of my injury, I was Winnie the Pooh himself. He is kindly described by his own best friend Christopher Robin (annoyingly, a kid with two first names and actually a bit of a bully) as a "bear with very little brain," simply because he is blissfully unaware of bees and the hardships of life in general. I walked around in a Winnie-like state, convinced that this shoulder thing was nothing bad and would be healed by a magical woodland fairy and I'd be back climbing in no time. I was much like the lovable cartoon in the episode where he is hurled face first into the hole of a tree where he gets stuck but is completely unconcerned by that since the little tree cave is full of honey, his favorite food (how does he not have type two diabetes?). A bear with a higher IQ may have freaked the F*** out at the revelation that there was limited oxygen in there, and feel panicked and claustrophobic and almost certainly as if death were coming considering the unlikelihood that his friends could get him out of such an insane place with enough time to save him from suffocation. In fact, now I am freaking out about that episode because that is how it ENDS! With Winnie stuck in a honey hole at the top of a MASSIVE oak tree!! I assume he got down safely because he is in the next story. That Christopher Robin has a messed up imagination. Time to take that kid to a child psychiatrist.
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| Pooh! Things are SO FAR from okay for you! |
So about three days in, I found I was still lying on the couch in a sling, and that there was no magical woodland fairy, and I was still not climbing. The blissful unawareness of Winnie quickly gave way to the extreme depression of Eeyore, the sawdust-filled donkey toy with a bow and nail pinning his own tail to his ass (the guy has good reason to be low). I suddenly noticed with shocking definition the intensity of the rainclouds outside. I realized that not only would my shoulder never heal, but that I would never climb again. Dark circles moved into the spaces for lease underneath my eyes with no intention of ever leaving their posts. I was my shoulder injury, nothing was good or even less than horrible, and life as I knew it was over. I was Eeyore. Inconsolable, always beneath an ominous raincloud, and on auto-pilot to ensure my doubt about whether or not a morning was good when anyone pointed out that it was.
I wasn't angry. Rather, I had fallen into a pit of depression as deep as a well out of which I could not see. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. I felt too sad to do anything other than mope about the things I used to have that were good, and would never be good again. Everyone and everything sucked. This character was probably another indication that Christopher Robin needed some serious help. My Eeyore phase lasted a couple of days, days that passed like a snail through molasses as I stared out the window entranced by the never ending rain.
In the next stage I morphed into a character who didn't technically exist in the Hundred Acre Wood (why does that sound dirty?), but potentially could have. I was still Eeyore, but angry Eeyore. Eeyore with turrets, if you will. My response to "good morning" would be to lash out angrily and argue that this morning not only wasn't good, but was horrible just like whoever it was who wished me a "good morning". Then I might grab Piglet by the ears and throw him against a wall. Anyone else want to wish me a good morning?! Huh!? I didn't think so. I wonder if Eeyore ever DID finally lose his mind and get angry behind the scenes. Maybe now he is sitting in an asylum in a straight jacket, rocking back and forth with eyes wide muttering something about how his whole life could have been different if that jerk Christopher finally gave him a tail that didn't require re-pinning fifteen times an hour. Sorry if I just ruined Eeyore for you with that disturbing image. What I meant to say was.... Eeyore finally got some Prozac and went to live with his cousin in upstate New York. He became a motivational speaker and lived happily ever after.
I could have gone another direction and compared my angry phase of shoulder healing to feeling like Rabbit. Christopher clearly gave up any and all attempts to be creative with that name. Maybe that's why Rabbit was so pissed- he just wanted to be called Eugene. Or even simpler, Bill. Anything but a description of what he was. How would you feel if people walked around calling you Boy Child, Christopher!? Inconsiderate kid... Ugh. Anyways, Rabbit was always pissed with good reason because ignorant wistful Pooh would steal all of his honey and then the rest of his food, and other characters ruined his garden "by accident" or would piss him off some other way when he just wanted peace and quiet and to be called by an actual name. Do you blame the rodent?!
 |
| I don't care about you or your problems. Just be thankful I didn't name you Bear. You were lucky enough to be named after a poo I had once that you somewhat resemble. That's right. I named you after a poo. |
Today I've entered the next stage, which is the phase where I feel slight improvement in my injury and am therefore falsely hopeful and potentially about to do something stupid, like climb. I guess that would be Tigger? He was always causing trouble, that guy, and bringing others with him on his irresponsible endeavors (he was probably 100% responsible for the corruption of Roo- you don't even WANT to know what happened later in the life of the annoying infant Aussie pest- there may be a documentary about child actors whose lives went to hell in which he is featured. Proceed with caution.). At least he narrowly missed becoming another "Rabbit"- he probably only got his name because Christopher Robin sucked at spelling or speaking, and actually meant to call him Tiger. Close call, Tigger- count your blessings.
You know, as long as I never become Owl, the pedantic jerk who thinks he is all knowing and really just gives horrible advice, I'm happy to continue going through the emotions of cartoon characters from Winnie the Pooh. Oh, I also never want to be Christopher Robin. That kid is the WORST.
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| This is the REAL Christopher Robin, by the way. Can't you just TELL he has a touch of the crazy?? |
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