Ouch.

We're getting close to finalizing our insurance settlement from the accident, and I got a copy of this message from our lawyer to the insurance company:

"Given the medical expenses and limited insurance available, Heidi will not come close to being made whole."

That almost made me cry. I know what he meant: "After medical expenses, her cash settlement will not adequately compensate for her injury." But that line "Heidi will not come close to being made whole" just pierced me. My leg never will be whole again. I will function normally, but never as well as I would have otherwise.

And that hurts.

I was going to give this a positive spin, a life-affirming "it will all work out for the best" vibe, which I do believe, but I think right now I just want to feel that hurt and accept it.

Of course ours is the weird kid

Atticus participated in his first Primary program on Sunday. He had his line memorized and had practiced saying it slowly and clearly. He even knows some of the songs.

But once he got on the stand, it all disappeared. During the songs he didn't know (and even parts of some he did), he leaned on the railing with his chin in his hands, looking really bored. Or he danced around. One of our friends in the front row observed that it looks like Atticus always has a Star Wars battle scene in his head that he's trying to act out. That kid is never still.

Then came the moment: his line! He stood at the microphone and wilted. Even with prompting he curled up and refused to speak. They let him go and little Afton, who isn't even officially in Primary yet, marched up and said her line, pleased as punch.

Afterward I asked him why he didn't say his line, and he just said, Huh? I reminded him, "I follow Jesus' example when I go to church." And he got really upset: I want to say it! I missed it! What happened?! We let him say it at the pulpit (microphone off), and the Primary president said he could do it again in Primary next week.

I think Atticus just didn't get what was going on. He'd missed the forest for the trees, lost in his perpetual narrative.

Speaking of narrative, Atticus pulled his new socks up to his knees this morning and called himself Wonder Boy. I asked him if he wanted to wear his soccer socks, which are even longer, and he said, "No, Wonder Boy doesn't wear blue socks, just white socks." Good to know.

My goodness, I love that boy.

Ready or not, here comes Chrismas

(from last year)

Atticus has been talking about Christmas for the past month. For a couple weeks he was obsessed with nutcrackers, asking over and over again for a nutcracker that's NOT a Christmas decoration. I blame his friend Henry, who has fireman and soccer player nutcrackers. I wasn't about to shell out $20 for the not-really-a-toy nutcracker he begged for at Lowe's, but James made Atticus's week when he found a small one at the dollar store. It even had a working lever that makes the mouth move. Fan-TAS-tic.

Last week at preschool they had face painting, and Atticus asked for a Christmas tree. Everyone else was a butterfly or a tiger or Spiderman, but Atticus had a big green nose and a gold star between his eyes. He was thrilled. 

He's also been talking about what he wants to get, of course. I've been very upfront about how Daddy and I are Santa Claus (yes, I know, I'm a HORRIBLE person for attempting to deprive my child of Christmas fantasy), but my efforts have fallen on deaf ears. He asked how he could tell Santa what he wanted, and I said he could just tell me, because I'm Santa--I buy the presents. "I know, I know, but what about the REAL Santa? With the reindeer?" Ok, fine. I'm his helper. (I'm not going to insist he stop believing; I just don't want there to be disappointing surprises later.) 

Now when he tells me about something he wants, he asks if I've written it down. I only write down what he mentions repeatedly, and so far the list is a DreamLight and a Scooby-Doo Mona-Tiki-Tia play set. The problem is he wants a Curious George DreamLight, which they don't actually make, but he thinks maybe it can be found at another store or Santa can just make it. (And they're $30! Are you kidding me?) And though I've seen pictures of a Scooby-Doo figure with a tiki head, they don't make them anymore, and they certainly don't come in the exactly-like-the-episode detail in a foldable, portable play set that he has described. So I can pay top dollar for a collectible set, but it still won't be exactly what he wants. (See why I'm reluctant to perpetuate the fantasy of elves that can make anything??) We may have to settle for action figures of the full Scooby gang. A friend found Daphne, Velma, and Shaggy at a thrift store, but we're missing Fred and Scooby.

Then there are the things I want to get him, like a bike or scooter, and maybe some better shoes. I'm all for restraint in gifts (I really like the idea of three gifts like the gifts of the Three Kings--not counting gifts from extended family), but it's hard not to try to make all his dreams come true. 

I believe experiences are more important than things, so I'm going to focus my energies on memorable activities, which are often free. Sledding, lights, live Nativities, a trip to the mall to see Santa, gingerbread cookies, decorating the tree. That's what Christmas is made of. I hope. 

Another landmark

We drove past/through the accident site for the first time today. It was hard. The plan was to avoid that canyon entirely and just go to the Temple Quarry at the mouth of Little Cottonwood, but as we got closer, James felt like we should go. I agreed.

We both about soiled ourselves when we saw a full-size pickup in the opposite lane, even though it was clearly on its side of the line and nowhere near the crash site. We both recognized the spot when we reached it, and it gave me chills. We both laughed; it felt like whistling past a graveyard. But we made it. I'm really glad no one was coming around the corner the same time we did. It might have been too much. Atticus was playing with his Scooby Doo toys and didn't even notice.

Going back down was rough. Not through the crash site, though it was interesting to see the site from the other driver's perspective. But there's a small, blind s-curve (not the big one--this one's narrower), and there was a long line of cars coming the other direction, one car after another that could cross that line at any moment.

I've thought about what has been the worst part of the whole experience. It isn't the injury or the pain at all. One strong contender is the withdrawals from the pain meds. I'd tried to be careful, but I still went through about 10 horrible days feeling all the physical symptoms of anxiety and creepy-crawly skin (not to mention the gastrointestinal effects), wanting to take something--anything--to feel normal again. I had Xanax but was afraid to use it in case that became habit-forming, too. (I couldn't get the image out of my mind of a woman on "celebrity rehab" freaking out because her doctor took away her Xanax. Don't ask why I was watching celebrity rehab....) I did take Valium, but only at night. Eventually it passed.

But even as bad as that was, it wasn't the worst part. The worst part was seeing that truck coming toward us, knowing that we were totally helpless to avoid the crash. And I couldn't get away from it. I couldn't get out of the car, so I spent the whole time staring at the truck's grill through our broken windshield. That feeling of helplessness and vulnerability hasn't gone away, even outside the canyons. Every intersection, every time we hit the freeway, every time Atticus gets in someone else's car, I know it could happen again. James says the feeling makes him both more cautious and more reckless: you don't want another accident, but you're pretty sure you'll be ok if it happens. I haven't gotten there yet.

I don't hold any hard feelings against the other driver. I can't imagine how it would feel to be the cause of someone else's injury. He was distracted for a second, just like I am all the time. And I can't say I'm sorry I got to spend a good chunk of summer in bed, watching tv and letting other people bring me jello and snacks. Sure, I was uncomfortable, but  it wasn't all bad. I had no responsibilities other than healing, and it was a nice break. And I get handicap parking for the rest of the year. I'll be sad when that expires. And a new car, which I think I like better than our last one.

If I had a choice, of course I'd rather we didn't have the accident. It's changed us forever. But we survived, and we're doing ok.

The evolution of a foot.

July 23

7 August

Mutant foot from outer space. 

7 August

Nasty, fibrous super-scab. I had to gradually cut that off for the wound to heal properly. Yeah, I mean with scissors.

28 August

Das boot. Hot, nasty thing.

28 August

This was probably in the morning, since there's not a huge difference between the two.

7 September

Aaaaaaand this is in the evening. 

First and last time I've worn those shoes since the accident. (Man, they really need a polish.)

When I wear tennis shoes I have "muffin top" ankle. 

I had the big screws taken out a week and a half ago, which immediately decreased my joint pain. The incision still hurts, and the stitches don't come out for another couple weeks. They were supposed to come out next week, but my doctor is out of the office. I'd be tempted to take them out myself if I didn't need to ask the doctor some questions.

I've been going to physical therapy, and I have much more flexibility in my ankle. My therapist says I'll get 90% recovery within about six months. The last 10% takes another six months. And I'll probably have arthritis in this ankle from now on, but staying active will reduce the symptoms. My insurance covers only 20 PT visits per calendar year, and I've had 12. So we're going down to one visit per week, and I get to go back to the gym for the rest. I've been using a seated stationary bike at home, but I need to work on my hips and legs more specifically. Rowing machine, here I come.

Overall I feel like life is coming back together. I still have no desire to cook, but our house is back to normal and I'm back at work a couple days a week. Atticus is back at his old preschool. We love his teacher. James is back at Hunter High. So we're getting back to normal. Just don't ask me to walk very fast. 

My thoughts exactly

I just read a fantastic post about the facade Christians present. The author had a disagreement with a pastor who wanted to change the words to "Come Thou Fount" because he did not feel that he was "prone to wander." Because true Christians never waver, I guess. The author disagree, ,as clearly so do I. Click here to read it, as well as all the comments. Great stuff.

A Few Things

How do you not love this face? And the bundle of energy behind it? It's 9:30 p.m. and he's acting out some wild adventure with Shaggy and Scooby in the form of dollar-store mini car spaceships. His ongoing story pulls characters from everywhere. I even heard him yell, "Watch out, Magnum!" the other day. (What can I say? I've spent most of the summer in bed and the entire series is on Netflix. Quality TV.)

Now for the brain dump:

• My ankle really hurts today. It might be because my physical therapist is having me walk on it more, moving from two crutches to one, and doing strengthening exercises. Or it *might* be because I had to carry a screaming, thrashing 4-year-old over my shoulder up the stairs--without crutches--to get him in the shower and jammies. My sweet boy had the meltdown of all meltdowns last night while James was over at the other property trying to fix a leaky sprinkler in the dark, and I'm happy to say he was calm by the time James came home. But man, it was a rough half hour. Other than my sore foot, we seem to have suffered no lasting effects.
• If you haven't heard, we got a new car. It's a red 2010 Subaru Forester (Subaru forever!). Atticus's favorite feature is the cup holder that flips up from the middle of the back seat. I'll get pictures one of these days. 
• Two more weeks and I hope to get the big screws out of my ankle. The little screws and their plate are going to stay. Probably forever. Here are the x-rays so you know to which screws I am referring:

• I thought I had preschool set up for Atticus, then found out last week the teacher gave our spot away. Frustrating. But I hear there's still room at his old preschool, so we'll see if we can get in there. It's half-day afternoons, which isn't ideal, but I think we can make it work. If we get in.

I'd better sign off now. My sweet boy wants me to go snuggle him in bed. How can I resist?