I’m not very good at sitting still. See, I’ve hurt my leg and I’m supposed to rest for the next two weeks, and it just ain’t going to happen. I just can’t help it. I’m incapable of sitting still. Something inside me dies when I’m forced to.
Whenever I think of forced resting, I’m reminded of a car accident I was in when I was 18. My grandmother was driving me to school and, driving as slowly as you’d imagine a grandmother would, she may or may not have gone extremely slowly through an orange light (I, unfortunately, couldn’t confirm or deny anything, as I was ferreting through my schoolbag at the time, and had my head down); so slowly that the light turned red while she was doing it and, when the the light turned green for the other road, another car decided to just go, and crash into the back of my nonna’s car.
It was actually quite a bad crash — we veered into a traffic light, felled it, went over it, over the median strip and ended up in the middle of the wrong side of the road, on a major thoroughfare. Luckily, no cars were there at the time and no oncoming traffic drove into us. In fact, we were lucky all around; Nonna just had a little whiplash and I just had some bruising on my sternum from the seat belt and a little damage from whacking my hand on the dashboard.
I heard the ambos telling each other in low voices how bloody lucky we appeared to have been — that people die in crashes like the one we’d had — and that they should have us completely checked over when we got to the hospital. They insisted on taking us away on stretchers, even though I kept telling them that I was fine.
Apart from very low blood pressure, leading them to decide I was in shock (I wasn’t — well, not much — I just have low blood pressure), they decided I was fine, but that I should probably rest my hand for a few weeks until it healed. It was my right hand, and I’m left handed, so it should have been easy, they said.
Silly, silly them.
Despite the fact that I was in the middle of my year 12 exams at the time, and despite the fact that I’d given up my weekly lessons and my nightly hour-long practices two years earlier (so I’d have more time for studying in my last few years of high school), I played the piano nearly every damn night for the next two months — more regularly than I’d done in two years. I just couldn’t help myself. It was compulsive.
I was stressed, I was desperate for some sort of creative outlet, and the fact that I wasn’t supposed to be overusing my hand was competing with some sort of idea in my teenage brain that they didn’t bloody know what they were talking about and that all those little muscles and things needed to be used, not let to stiffen up.
That, and I don’t like to be told what to do. And I don’t like doctors.
And you know what? My hand’s fine.
I just wasn’t raised to sit still and do nothing. So you’ll forgive me for my next post, and the amount of standing that was involved in creating it. It really wasn’t that much, and my leg is healing fine.
Frankly, a Lisa with cabin fever is much worse.