Complaining

"Don't let me turn into a crabby complaining old woman," I said to Day, half-teasing.  

"You're not much of a complainer," she assured me, half-true.

I complain about the Texas weather--enough already of the 99 degree days!  To people who kindly inquire about my knee, I might be tempted to answer with more details than necessary: 

"It's been four months," I might say, "It's way better, but--between two and three every morning, I wake up moaning with pain in my foot, my calf, my thigh.  The toes cramp and the sole of the foot...."  

Well, you get the picture.

Day said she'd read about (and tried) this:  Put a bracelet on your right arm.  Every time you hear yourself complaining about ailments, heat, politics, COVID, or whatever, move the bracelet to the left wrist.  

As we were talking, I put a silver cuff bracelet on my right arm.  Within five minutes, I had to move it to the left.  The following day I didn't have to move it at all--but it was a day when I was at home alone and didn't talk to anyone.

"From now on, if friends ask about my knee," I said to Day, "I'm just going to say 'Much Better,' thank you." (Yeah, right!)

On the other hand, it's also true: when our closest people ask, it feels good to say how it really is, to complain a little. Mutual honesty gives us a chance to support each other and  makes both of us feel a few stitches closer to normal.  

 

Yesterday, I texted the surgeon: "Is this night pain normal after four months?  Should I come in for an x-ray or something?" 

"I wouldn't worry about it," he responded, reassuringly.  

I didn't text my first thoughts back or I'd have had to move the bracelet to the other wrist: "Yes, but you're what? 30? You might worry a little more if it were your leg that wakes you up moaning every single night."