Transitions

My family is in a state of transition right now. Tomorrow, my parents move into their assisted living facility. Not only are they moving out of their home, but they are also moving about 30 minutes outside of town. My sister and I have been encouraging them to look into assisted living for over a year now. And my mom has also recognized the need for this move for a while. My mom has balance issues, as well as neuropathy in her feet, which leads to falls. At this time, my mom seems to average one fall every two weeks. She has been fortunate in that she hasn't experienced too many serious injuries, but my dad is no longer able to help get her up off of the floor. In addition, my dad is beginning to experience some difficulty with his right knee giving out on him and is just generally fatigued overall. My dad also deals with some decreased memory issues. The move to assisted living will be helpful to my dad as he has been having to provide more care and assistance to mom over the last year.

My parents went to look at a facility at the beginning of June and an opening at that facility became available, so they went ahead and proceeded with arranging to obtain that apartment. This is all happening so fast. Now, my parents find themselves moving from a three-bedroom house into a one-bedroom apartment that basically consists of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room area. They do not even have a full kitchen in their new unit, only a small kitchenette without a stove. It has hit me that there will no longer be holiday dinners at mom and dad's house, with the smells of turkey and ham roasting in the oven. Of homemade macaroni and cheese and mashed potatoes. There will no longer be room for me and my siblings to gather around a Christmas tree, opening presents on Christmas morning while monkey bread bubbles over in the oven. There won't be a table big enough to gather around for a game of Uno or Phase Ten. I know there is a room there at Wesley Manor where we could gather if we reserved it, but it won't be the same. 

As my parents have been frantically preparing for their move they have been trying to sort through their belongings as they pack them. I can relate to the struggles with trying to decide what to take to the new place, what to donate, what to try to sell, and what to give to friends and family as I just moved into my current apartment back in December. I, too, was downsizing, and found that one, I had more stuff than I thought I had, and two, I had less space at my new place than I thought I was going to for the stuff that I brought over. I still have about a half dozen boxes yet to be unpacked and I have had to get rid of more stuff after I moved in because I simply did not have room for it all. My parents have been choosing items to offer to us kids and the grandkids as well as they go through this process. My dad brought over a counted cross stitch that I was particularly fond of and on Monday morning my home health aide helped to hang it up on the wall for me. It looks great hanging there. But I found myself tearing up right away. When she asked me what was wrong, I replied "It's beautiful, but it makes me sad. This is not supposed to be hanging on my wall. It's supposed to be hanging on mom and dad's wall, in mom and dad's house. Now, there is no longer mom and dad's 'house'." And I found myself choking back tears and biting down on the corner of my trembling lips. It's not the same. And even though I've been talking about moving into assisted living with my parents for over a year now, I'm not ready for them to go now that the time has come. 

I have been unable to go over to my mom and dad's house for several months now due to my own physical limitations and health issues. However, I'm used to seeing my dad a couple of times a week at my place. Now that they are going to be thirty minutes away, that is going to change. Dad will no longer be able to just "drop by". And I'm going to miss that. Terribly. I'm afraid that I'm not going to see my parents anymore. And I'm hurting.  I feel guilty for hurting because I know that they are looking forward to this next phase of their life. I know that it will offer more opportunities for my mom to socialize as she will be able to get out of her apartment and use her electric scooter to get to and from activities. There are so many things about this move that are going to be positive and beneficial for my parents, and I want to be happy for them without feeling this huge sense of loss inside me. I'm so grateful that my parents were able to make this decision to move into assisted living themselves, as opposed to finding my siblings and I in a position of having to place them in a care facility at a later date. This is definitely going to be an adjustment for all of us, my parents included. I have to remember that things are going to be different for them as well. I typically resist change, but this is happening tomorrow whether I like it or not. I am going to miss having them so nearby.

Withdrawing Into Myself

Four days ago, I received a phone call that a good friend of mine had died by suicide. I wasn't really sure what to think. I have been hit with so many overwhelming emotions. There has been great sadness. Anger. Guilt. Anxiety. This has definitely triggered some of my own mental health symptoms. My friend Shelley lived with bipolar 1 disorder and had been dealing with that for over 40 years. I know what that is like as I also live with bipolar 1 disorder and OCD. When I'm in a depressive state, it is so hard to believe that it will ever end. I am inundated with intrusive thoughts that perhaps I'd be better off dead. I latch onto these thoughts with a grip so strong that it causes my knuckles to bleed. At first the thoughts race through my cerebral cortex, bouncing off of the inside of my skull. Then the thoughts turn to molasses, oozing slowly between the neural connections in my brain. My heart pounds in my chest. I can hear my blood coursing through my veins, sloshing in my ears, reminding me that I am in fact still alive, even though I wish I wasn't. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I flush, my skin turns red and I'm on fire. Then my stomach starts to churn, and I begin to vomit. Frantic, I scramble around to find something, anything, to ease my discomfort. I begin to stuff my face, which only leads to more vomiting, self-loathing, and guilt. Then I spend money, whether I have it to spend or not. All of this goes on at the speed of lightening, despite the fact that I'm moving at a snail's pace. It does not make sense.

Even though I'm doing well in general right now, it is in these moments that my mind turns towards suicidal thoughts. It's not so much that I want to die as much as it is that I don't want to experience any more pain. I would rather deal with physical pain than emotional pain. For many years I turned to self-harming behaviors such as cutting to give me that release. Like drinking, that stopped working for me and no longer brought relief. By working with a good therapist that I trust and with my psychiatrist and case manager, I have learned some coping skills to help me get through those difficult times. However, that does not always help when I'm in the depths of despair. Knowing that I have choices other than suicide doesn't occur to me in those moments. The pull to escape is far too strong. On Sunday October 2, 2005, I felt like I just could not go on any longer. Despite having mental health care and family and friends who loved me, I took 5 full bottles of my different psychiatric medications in an attempt to end my life. I was found unconscious in the street. Someone called for an ambulance, and I was intubated on the scene before being transported to the hospital. I spent several days on the ventilator, in a coma. The doctors had told my dad to call the family because they were not sure that I was going to survive. All I remember was that for a brief moment, before I lost consciousness, I thought to myself "Oh my God! I've really done it this time!". And I was scared. There was no "white light" calling me home. There was just blackness. I was lucky to have survived. 

People kept asking me why I didn't reach out. Friends and family reassured me that they loved me and would have done anything for me if only I would have called them. I thought that when I heard that Shelley had died. Why didn't she call me first? Why didn't I see this coming? Even though she lives out of town, and I hadn't talked to her in about 3 weeks I felt like I should have known. Me, of all people, should have known. Why didn't I see this coming? I'm angry. Not at her. At myself. At bipolar disorder. At God. This isn't fair. None of this is fair. In fact, it fucking sucks. I'm hurting. I know myself well enough to realize that I have to reach out to others for support as I deal with my emotions. My therapist happened to be out of the office for the remainder of the week when this happened, so I called and spoke with the therapist on call. That was a big step for me. However, after that initial phone call and a Facebook post where I encouraged people to reach out, I find myself wanting to pull inside again. That is my comfort zone. I don't want to feel right now. After one sleepless night I've spent the last 3 days doing almost nothing other than sleep and eat. I can't cry. I'm afraid that if I do, I won't stop or that the pain will rip me open if I try to let a little bit of it out. Bipolar disorder is a daunting beast. I wish that Shelley would have reached out to me before taking all of those pills. But I get why she didn't. The pain just became more than she could bear the other night. Since moving to Lafayette in 1998 I've lost 3 friends to suicide. My serious attempt was 19 years ago. Was that the last time I had suicidal thoughts? No, definitely not. Sometimes I've felt that pull very strongly. Over the years, I've gotten much better at reaching out, even though it goes against my grain. My default is almost always to pull in. But as hard as it is to reach out, I've found that it is crucial in saving my life. It is my hope that others will find the strength to hang on. My therapist is always encouraging me to sit with the discomfort because it will pass. It is ALWAYS okay to call me, anytime, day or night! I'd rather get a call for help than another call at 4:00 a.m. telling me that you have died. I will miss you, my friend. 

October 2, 2005

I mixed a cocktail.
Lamictal, 200 mg, 60 pills.
Trileptal, 300 mg, 30 pills.
Trazodone, 300 mg, 60 pills.
Remeron, 30 mg, 30 pills.
Seroquel, 300 mg, 60 pills.
All taken together, at once
with 64 ounces of milk
to coat my stomach.
I thought I could make it
to the park bench by the courthouse fountain
but I collapsed 200 yards into my journey.
My legs just buckled,
my body ignoring the commands
to get up out of the middle of the road.
I vomited.
Retching, spewing pill fragments and milk
all over my face, all through my hair,
and I remember thinking
"Oh my God, I've really done it this time!"
It.
Suicide.
Death.
The end of my life.
I was instantly gripped by panic.
It's not supposed to feel like this!
Where is my sense of peace,
that amazing white light to welcome me home?
Then everything went black
and there was nothing.
I was intubated in the street
and wheeled into the ER
as a Jane Doe, suspected drug overdose.
No ID.
Just a cryptic note crumpled up in my
right front pocket of my jeans.
I awoke days later
to the hiss of the ventilator
ringing in my ears,
my eyelids fluttering in time
to the rhythm of the heart monitor.
Five bags of fluid on the IV pole.
Wires everywhere.
I tried to move
but my wrists were in restraints.
I began to cough,
choking on the tube down my throat
and I heard my mother's voice saying
"Get the nurse! She's waking up!"
Who? Me?
But that can't be!
I did it.
I really did it this time.
It.
Suicide.
Death.
Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?
Am I okay
or am I going to be a vegetable?
Why is Days of our Lives
on my hospital room TV?
My days were supposed be over
but now there is a social worker in my room
talking to my parents
about the number of days
I'll need to be under inpatient psychiatric care!
Again.
Dammit, again.
I want to say "I'm sorry", but I can't.
What am I sorry for?
For putting my family through this?
For asking them to love me anyway?
For not dying?
It,
suicide,
death
is such a mess.
I already sent out invitations to my funeral
because I wanted to be sure
someone would be there
to remember me for me
because I sure as hell
don't remember me.
My mind's long term memory
is racked with guilt and shame and pain
and my short term memory
is, well, what were we talking about?
It.
Suicide.
Death.
And the day I almost, almost died.

FUCK YOU, Affirmations!!!

I have mixed feelings about affirmations. The first time a therapist suggested trying them out I thought to myself, "this is bullshit!". I am NOT going to sit down in front of a mirror and say, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me". I will not be like Stuart Smalley! For years and years now I have resisted, no, more like fought tooth and nail, the suggestions to try saying positive things to myself or worse yet, to tell myself that I loved myself. That just wasn't going to happen! That shit was for "crazy" people. But then, every once in a while, I'd find myself thinking what harm could it do? Maybe it was worth a shot to try to see if coming up with a few positive affirmations could help me with the way I saw and felt about myself. I started with a very basic one - "I like myself." I wasn't ready to use the word love because in all honesty, I struggled to believe that I did indeed barely, sort of even like myself a little bit My therapists would keep telling me that the more you say the affirmations and practice repeating them to yourself, the more you begin to believe them. They also told me that I could make affirmations for things that I wanted to manifest in my life. So, I added "I am sober" to my tiny list, months before I was able to finally get sober. 

As the years have gone by, I have vacillated between periods of using affirmations and "going it alone" in the darker corners of my mind. A couple of years ago I came across a planner, Define My Day, and as I also have an addiction to buying excessive amounts of certain items (planners, journals, pens, etc.), I ordered a set of three to take advantage of the sale price (and because 3 is one of my numbers "chosen" by my OCD). The very first page of this planner is titled "Affirmations" and there is a whole page for you to list whatever you'd like. I started making my list. Three became 8 (the other number "chosen" by my OCD to be important), 8 became 11, and eventually 11 became 16. I included statements which reflected how I felt about myself as well as things I wanted to manifest in my life. It seemed to work for me when I was trying to get sober, so why not? The planner also gives you spaces to create goals for the month and then you can break those down into milestones that help you to work towards achieving those goals. Each day you can set priorities and tasks to help you meet those. Anyway, what I found was that I rarely turned back to the first page to review my affirmations. I'd have good intentions of doing that each day and then it wouldn't happen. What did happen was that I'd get pissed off at the affirmations for not working when the truth of the matter was that they weren't working because I wasn't reading them to myself regularly. 

Now I'm at another crossroad with my affirmations. I'm wanting to use them as a tool to help guide me and encourage me with my weight loss journey. I'm feeling so down and discouraged by the fact that since my fall resulting in the ankle and fibula fractures last December, I've regained 60 pounds. There are times when I find myself wishing that I could just fall into a very deep hole and die because I'm embarrassed and ashamed and angry and frustrated and sad. And then there are moments where I'm feeling motivated to get back at it. I lost the weight before; I can lose it again! Can't I? I decided to make up 8 posters, each with an affirmation or phrase to help encourage me and remind me of what I'm doing and why. I used bright colored markers and have all of them taped to my living room wall, directly across from my recliner. And I must admit, they do help me, when I let them. I'm going to say that again - they do help me, when I let them!

So, fuck you, affirmations! How dare you make me feel better about myself? How dare you encourage me to make better choices and decisions? How dare you help me to pause to consider my options and the consequences of the choices I make? How dare you help me to move in a more positive direction? How dare you challenge me and my way of thinking? (Oh, and thank you affirmations.) I'm still nowhere near being ready to look at myself in the mirror and say, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me." But I am learning, as affirmation number 8 on my living room wall states, to "Sit with the discomfort. It will pass! I won't die!" And I am capable of doing great things!

I Am Scared

I am scared. I am having a hard time staying in today right now. Because of my anxiety, I do not spend a lot of time following what is going on in politics. It is so easy for me to get wrapped up in feelings of helplessness and hopelessness about what is going on in the world. It seems like there is so little that I can do, and everything is out of my control. I know that these feelings are only going to become more intense over the next several months as we approach the time for elections. I find myself praying that perhaps we can move not so much towards making America great again but towards making America kind again. However, I fear that this is not the direction things are moving and it terrifies me. My OCD is being triggered and I find myself engaging in compulsions which take up a lot of my time, without providing relief for my anxiety. Between those and the nightmares I am now having, I am left feeling pretty unsettled.  

I worry about cutbacks to both Medicare, and to Medicaid at the state level. I have been receiving Social Security Disability since 2005 due to pervasive mental illness. There have been many years that found me being hospitalized several times for either severe depression or mania due to my bipolar disorder. Because of that, and my severe OCD, I am unable to work. It is only in recent years that I have experienced any level of stability. I worry about what will happen to me if social security is slashed. As it is, I currently make barely enough to live on from month to month.

As a member of the LGBTQIA+ community, I fear that the rights for same-sex marriage could be stripped away. What seemed like a beginning to moving in the direction of acceptance and recognition of the same rights for members of this community, as for all others, now seems to be going backwards. And although I am not transgender, it infuriates me that there is so much controversy and anger over what bathroom someone wants to use. I identify as lesbian and although I am not currently in a relationship, I want my right to marry another woman, if I so choose to, to be honored, recognized, and protected. I do feel that there is more open-mindedness and acceptance towards LGBTQIA+ individuals in our society, however in politics, this seems to be becoming more controversial again.

Women's rights are also going backwards. I was devastated by the overturning of Roe vs. Wade. When I was 18 years old, I was raped. When my period didn't come, I took a pregnancy test. Actually, I took 8 pregnancy tests, just to be sure. They were all positive. After a lot of thought, crying, and yes, praying, I made the very difficult decision to have an abortion. I was not ready to be a mother. Having children was never going to be a part of my life plan. I could not envision myself being able to carry the pregnancy to term as it would be a constant reminder of my horrific experience. So, I chose to terminate the pregnancy. I know that this is a very controversial issue and I'm not going to try to force anyone to believe a certain way; I'm just going to share my own beliefs.  It is my opinion that each woman should have the right to make that decision for herself. Having safe, accessible medical care should be a right. This was not a decision that I made lightly and without great thought. Stripping women's healthcare away just isn't the answer, no matter what your personal beliefs are. Threatening doctors who perform abortions puts the lives of the women at stake. I can't believe that we find ourselves here again on this issue. I fear for the lives and safety of all women who find themselves struggling to make this decision.

There are so many other issues that I worry about - gun control and banning assault weapons, climate change and the health of our planet, banning books and trying to erase parts of our history and what we allow to be taught in our schools, children going to school hungry, homelessness, the way we care for our elders and our veterans, illegal immigration and border control, racism, foreign affairs, the war in the Middle East....the list goes on and on. Like I said at the beginning, I can't allow myself to spend too much time thinking about these issues because it feeds my depression and anxiety. I wish that I had hope for America, but right now, I don't know. I'm finding it so very hard to live in today and not worry about what tomorrow is going to hold. I don't like feeling so out of control. So, for now, I will do the next right thing for me and continue to pray. It's now after 4:00 a.m. I cannot do anything tonight. And when the time comes, I will vote.   

I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!

Tonight, I'm feeling especially "old". I just received my new Lifeline device from my insurance company. I have it sitting on its charging dock as I'm filling out the paperwork for my emergency contacts and medical history. I don't feel old enough to need one yet here I am. After my fall last December, I feel some sense of relief in knowing that help can be a push of a button away. There is some peace of mind that comes with having access to emergency services without the panic that gripped me when I came to in the bathroom after having passed out. The excruciating pain and the sight of blood pouring out of my lower leg and ankle was bad enough, but it paled in comparison to the overwhelming fear that I was going to bleed to death alone on my bathroom floor before anyone would find me. Now I can summon for help simply by pressing a button and, even if I'm not capable of pressing that button myself, it should detect a fall and initiate a call to emergency services automatically which is reassuring. So, if "I've fallen and I can't get up", I can have faith that help is on the way.

That's all well and good for my physical safety and needs. But what about my mental, emotional, and spiritual needs? In so many ways I feel as though "I've fallen and can't get up" in those areas as well. A lot of my OCD symptoms are rearing their ugly little heads right now and as I feel more stress and anxiety, I find myself counting and arranging everything in my mind. I have this notebook that is filled with numbers, just one through eight, that I've written over and over and over again. At first, writing numbers seems to help to decrease my anxiety, but then that act takes on a life of its own, becoming something that I must do. That then in turn feeds into my depression which is telling me to pull my blanket up over my head and hide from the world. I don't want to eat. Then I want to eat everything in sight. My participation in the weight loss program I was doing before my injury has been put on hold at this time until I'm further along in my recovery from the fractures and surgery. I'm frustrated by that. Instead of continuing to do what I need to be doing I've adopted the attitude "the hell with it!" And so it's no surprise that I've gained some of the weight that I had lost back again. That too feeds into the depression, and I let more and more of the little everyday things like brushing my teeth and putting on clean clothes fall by the wayside. I've slacked off on my physical therapy exercises and can feel myself losing strength. If I don't gain strength and endurance, I won't be able to leave my apartment which means I won't be able to be around people face to face. It's becoming all too easy for me to isolate right now. I'm sad. I'm lonely. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm alone. I feel as though "I've fallen, and I can't get up".

The good news is that there are lifelines out there for my mental, emotional, and spiritual needs that I can tap into if I choose to. I have a therapist and case manager who can help me process my emotions and challenge my thinking. I have support groups that I can reach out to and meetings I can attend on Zoom until I'm able to get out and about again. I do have friends, peer mentors, and sponsors that care about me and are willing to help if I ask and let them know what I need. I have a loving and supportive family. I have three kitties who love me unconditionally and are always happy to see me. And perhaps most importantly to me I have a gentle, loving God who is just waiting to help carry me through my life journey.  Sometimes it's hard for me to see God working in my life when I'm in the midst of darkness but I have to believe that He is there because I always make it out on the other side despite myself. All I have to do is press that button and God will answer my call for help. There are no emergencies that are too small, and I have to believe that I'm not bothering my family, my friends, my therapist, or my God when I reach out and make that call for help.

Open Fractures

On Saturday evening, December 16, 2023, I passed out in my bathroom. When I came to, I was pinned between the bathtub and the toilet with my left leg underneath me. I immediately felt this excruciating pain in my left leg, a pain like no other that I've ever felt before. I was gripped by a sense of panic as I realized that I would have to figure out how to get myself out of the bathroom so I could call for help. I live alone, and no one would be looking for me until Monday. I had to arch my back over the side of the tub and pull on my pantleg to get my left leg out from underneath me. I began scooting towards the bathroom door, blocking out the pain as best as I could. I grabbed for my reacher to push my shoes off because they were sticking to the bathroom floor, making it impossible for me to scoot on my butt. When I finally managed to get my left shoe off, I noticed that it was full of blood. I thought to myself, "Oh shit! That's not a good sign! That means that there is an open fracture!" I somehow managed to stay calm, focused on getting myself out to the living room. When I reached the hallway, I rolled over onto my stomach and began to do an army crawl towards my Amazon Echo device, where I could ask Alexa to call my dad for help. When I finally reached him, I told him I needed him to come over to my apartment to unlock the door for the fire department and EMS services because I had fallen in the bathroom and broken my ankle. He asked me how I knew that my ankle was broken and I replied "because the bones are sticking out"! I believe that I entered a state of shock because at that time I was no longer feeling much pain in my leg. Then a sense of panic began to set in and I started to hyperventilate. Emergency workers arrived and worked to get me up off the floor and up the stairs outside of my apartment to load me into the ambulance.

Things at the ER were crazy. Doctors and nurses were working in what seemed like a frenzied manner to me to begin to assess the "damage". Once I arrived at the hospital the intense pain really began to set in. I remembered the car accident I had been in back in May 1997 in which I shattered my right calcaneus. At the time, I thought that nothing could ever be more painful than that. I was wrong! I've also had both knees replaced. Nothing compared to the pain I was feeling that evening. NOTHING!!! After the necessary scans and x-rays were completed, I was told that I had an open ankle dislocation and an open fibula fracture. The doctors were going to put me under conscious sedation to set the dislocation and close that up. Then I would be going into emergency surgery early Sunday morning to repair the fibula fracture. After five days in intensive care, I was transferred to a skilled nursing facility to begin my recovery. I struggled to make progress in PT and OT, in part because of my eight week, non weight bearing status on my left leg combined with partial weight bearing on my right foot (due to a hairline fracture also a result of the fall), and in part due to a very deep depression that was setting in. I have bipolar I disorder and typically experience a dip into depression after the Christmas holidays are over anyway, and this situation certainly didn't help matters. I missed my three kitties terribly. I was missing my family over the holidays. I was mentally done and over it. I often found myself crying in the wee hours of the night when I should have been sleeping. It wasn't just my ankle and fibula that were fractured. My spirit was fractured. I wasn't sure that I'd be able to return home to take care of myself after this injury. Once I was finally able to start putting weight on my leg and walking again the pain was pretty intense. After three weeks of walking with physical therapy I felt like I was ready to return home. Those first few days were brutal, and I felt discouraged and defeated. I questioned my decision to come home and began to think that maybe I would have been better off surrendering my apartment, my kitties, my everything, and become a resident of the long term care facility. Those were not good feelings to have. 

One thing that was a saving grace to me during my first week home was the encouragement from a close friend. She was there to support me, push me to take those first few baby steps, to see how far I had really come in such a short time since beginning to walk again. She has been my primary care assistant over the last couple of years and I always looked forward to her coming over to my apartment to help me with housekeeping tasks, meal preparation, and daily living skills because she always knew how to make me smile. I didn't only view her as a caregiver; we had become friends. She helped me to laugh and to appreciate the little things. She helped me to see how far I had come. And then...she told me that she was going to be moving out of state in a month. I was crushed. And even though I could appreciate the opportunity for a new chapter in her life, I was devastated. I don't let too many people in. I had let her in and now she was going to be leaving. After she told me I cried. In many ways this felt like an open emotional fracture. I don't like to hurt, inside or outside. This hurts. It hurts more than I thought it was going to. 

So, where does all of this leave me today? Where do I go from here? I know that I have to continue with my physical recovery efforts in order to gain strength and endurance. I can't allow myself to settle in with my depression. I have to push myself to reach out and let others in. I have to get back to my prior level of functioning, both physically and emotionally, so that I don't remain isolated with my thoughts and feelings. I have to remember that my friend did not die, that I can still choose to make the effort to stay in touch. The physical pain in my left ankle and leg is lessening with time. I have to believe that the emotional pain and hurt I'm experiencing as my friend prepares to move next week will also lessen with time. Right now, I'm pretty raw. I'm in that "open fracture" stage. I can grieve what was - the almost daily contact with my friend - and know that it will not always hurt this bad. I can continue to share how I'm feeling with others, just as I have others help me with my physical therapy exercises. My legs will get stronger. My depression will quiet down. I will be happy for my friend and smile and laugh when I remember conversations we have had over the past four years. Open fractures can and do heal with time. I will be patient. I will have faith. I will do my part. I will get better.