Becoming a Jedi takes patience, puzzling, waiting, and a lot of slow learning. So does healing. What I hate most about the healing process is the waiting. I can’t do anything to speed it up, and I like to do things. I like to contribute. Healing is on its own watch, and I want it to be on mine. I’d like to snap my fingers, and have Phineas’s spinal column immediately knit itself back together so that he can walk again without a shred of difficulty or discomfort. Is that so much to ask?
I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress next to Phin’s crate since he came home on Friday. (Don’t feel bad for me—it’s a nice, comfy air mattress.) I spend a lot of time watching over him, and a lot of time waiting for the magic of healing which is taking its sweet time when I want it to use a magic wand. Healing, stop holding out on me. I’ve never been known for my patience. Quite the contrary. If something can be done today, right this minute, I’m doin’ it. Why can’t healing have that same work ethic? Why is it so damn lazy?
The body’s magic; life is magic. I get it. The surgeon drilled a hole into one of Phin’s vertebrae, cleaned out the ruptured disc area, and now the bone and disc are going to magically regenerate themselves in about 4-6 weeks. Okay, okay. We (humans and animals) are all tiny miracles of growth and progress and evolution. I know it’s a miracle that we have these soft squishy bodies that heal themselves through no effort on our part save for sleeping, eating, and, occasionally, taking some meds. Awesome. Now hurry up!
My pleas and prayers for an overnight recovery have thus far gone unanswered. The universe is making us sit, and wait, and watch, and learn. And I’ll do all those things because healing isn’t giving me a choice. It’s the boss, the teacher, the wise old sage, rocking in the corner, who’s earned the right to do things when it’s good and ready and satisfied that we’ve earned and learned everything it meant for us to earn and learn in the process. I’m thick-headed; I always have been. Lessons take a long time to seep into this skull of mine and make themselves at home in the deep recesses of my brain.
I’m inflating the air mattress. I’m giving Phin his meds wrapped in cheese (he’s crazy for Havarti), and tucking a soft blanket around him. He closes his eyes and drifts away into conversation with the sage, away from any pain, into a dream world where he walks and runs and is by all accounts perfectly healthy in every way. For him, for now, that’s enough. He’s content to give his body all the time it needs. I smile, and wait.