My nurse aid started doing my hair with moisturizer. She doesn’t like my hair to be always dry. It’s because I only take a shower once a week (it’s the only day I can squeeze in a shower between my exercises), and it’s on that day when she helps me wash my hair and put moisturizer on it. She asked me if I went to the hairdresser before the injury, and I said I didn’t; I used to moisturize my hair instead. I could stand up with both feet and had the use of both arms and hands, so I took a shower and washed my hair every day, and moisturized it every other day. Recently, I saw a picture of myself that was taken in January 2018 (two months before my injury) for an interview with Alison Rooney, a journalist at The Highland Current. My hair is long and very curly, and it looks thick.
I’ve written a lot about my yearning for the pre-injury past, and about the negative effects of clinging on to the time when I could do everything. Doing so prevents me from looking ahead with optimism, and I lose the staying power to keep doing my exercises. If I don’t do them steadily, I won’t recover my ability to move, and thereby my autonomy. But I still look back with longing. The past insists on stealthily getting into my mind when there’s any element that sets off an association. And these days any element has this kind of power: these are days of nostalgia. Maybe it’s tiredness; maybe it’s frustration; maybe it’s impatience. No matter how long I spend doing rehab exercises, progress is very slow. Or, my definition of progress. Perhaps it’s the high bar I set for myself: It’s so high that I can’t reach it.
Maybe I have to scale down the Kepra faster. Maybe I have to rest more, or meditate more frequently. Or, maybe I should turn the clock hands quickly. That way, I would age faster, but I would leave my disabilities behind – I’d be able to stand and walk and move my arm and hand. I know it’s an unreasonable expectation. I know that setting an unfulfillable goal is doomed to frustration and impatience. So, there’s only two options left: Eric’s three Ps, and shutting every crack in my mind so that the past won’t be able to get in.
I’ve written a lot about my yearning for the pre-injury past, and about the negative effects of clinging on to the time when I could do everything. Doing so prevents me from looking ahead with optimism, and I lose the staying power to keep doing my exercises. If I don’t do them steadily, I won’t recover my ability to move, and thereby my autonomy. But I still look back with longing. The past insists on stealthily getting into my mind when there’s any element that sets off an association. And these days any element has this kind of power: these are days of nostalgia. Maybe it’s tiredness; maybe it’s frustration; maybe it’s impatience. No matter how long I spend doing rehab exercises, progress is very slow. Or, my definition of progress. Perhaps it’s the high bar I set for myself: It’s so high that I can’t reach it.
Maybe I have to scale down the Kepra faster. Maybe I have to rest more, or meditate more frequently. Or, maybe I should turn the clock hands quickly. That way, I would age faster, but I would leave my disabilities behind – I’d be able to stand and walk and move my arm and hand. I know it’s an unreasonable expectation. I know that setting an unfulfillable goal is doomed to frustration and impatience. So, there’s only two options left: Eric’s three Ps, and shutting every crack in my mind so that the past won’t be able to get in.
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