Que Sera Sera

Last we chatted, I had confessed to you that left knee is a now a biatch and right knee's status has improved dramatically from "asshole" to "on the edge of pretty decent. "

Since then, I met with Dr. M to discuss this interesting change of events. We contemplated the possibility of an MRI to properly diagnose the biatch, but decided against it at this time. Knowing or not knowing won't really change our course of treatment right now. I'm in no shape to undergo any surgery on my left knee. Presently I need to keep making the right knee happier and stronger. 

Dr. M then shared his sandwich with me (he always wants me to eat his food) and we chatted about life. 

"So how are you doing?" he asked with a mouthful of bread.

Like that annoying brown-nosing kid at the front of the class whose hand shoots up eagerly every time the teacher asks a question, I began to confidently list all the things that would surely rank me as superior healer, "Oh I'm doing really well, " I bragged, "I alternate physio with push up and sit up ladders to increase my endorphin rush, I meditate on healing my soul, I visualize changing my gait pattern, I watch Dr. Phil and have incorporated his sweet sixteen tips for success, " I continued, "and then I make a list all that I'm thankful for. I'm just doing awesome. "

Dr. M looked up slowly from his sandwich (in disbelief?) "Ok," he replied calmly, "How are you sleeping?"

"Well...I'm not. I'm usually awake most of the night freaking out about my knees and my future, " I replied honestly. 

Dr. M then went on to explain his theory of why I was struggling at night. He suggested that I had created somewhat of a competition for myself. (Gasp! Me??? competitive???) I was working so hard to "win." I was setting a bar of undefined awesomeness that I was striving so hard throughout the day to achieve. I was operating at an unnatural high during the day and my brain was telling me to calm the eff down by waking me up at night. He likened my brain activity to that of a stock market. I was so artificially high that it was forced to correct itself; hence the dives I took at night in the form of spazz attacks. My brain was yelling, "Enough. You win. Stop the madness and just "be" already!"

I listened intently and it slowly occurred to me that he was right. He was so right. How does this man know me so well? I thought I was doing all the right things, trying so hard to be that "perfect specimen" rehabbing machine, when I realized something. I am so tired. I am exhausted. It's one thing to remain positive and work hard, but just like that social studies project in sixth grade where I chose 5 states to report on instead of the required 2 (and then cried because I had to work all night to finish it on time), I was overachieving and it was interfering with my well-being. Overachieving sounds like a positive word, doesn't it? It suggests "going above and beyond what is required." It's really not a positive thing. There is certainly a fine line between overachieving and striving for an unachievable, undefinable goal. 

With enlightenment and insight comes discomfort. So I went home and had a good solid cry. I put Natasha Bedingfield's, "Pocketful of Sunshine" on repeat and bawled. At one point I looked down and noticed my white shorts were now black and splotchy with ink (I just recently started wearing mascara for the first time - you know, to create a "glam" look) and with that discovery my crying hit the point of no return. Do you know what I mean when I say "hitting the point of no return?" It's that point where you just feel so utterly and pathetically sorry for yourself that you are no longer functioning like a proper human being. Maybe you're walking around your house sobbing, "This isn't fair! I hate my life!" when suddenly you stub your toe and then you're all like, "And now I stubbed my toe??? Well what else can possibly go wrong?  GAWWWWW!" That's exactly what I did. "My stupid knees! And I'm tired of trying so hard to be effin happy! And now my stupid mascara wrecked my stupid white shorts!!!  GAWWWWWW!" (I really hope I'm not the only one who has hit the point of no return before; otherwise, this is really quite embarrassing, isn't it?)

Anyways, once that was over and done with (it felt pretty good, dammit!) I began to really think about and process Dr. M's words of wisdom. He suggested that I stop worrying, "worrying is only wishing for things to go wrong." He suggested that I take one day at a time, just go with it, and adopt a new life mantra, "Que sera sera - What will be, will be."

Cool. It was all too much to process at that point. So I decided to spin my own "Kirstie" interpretation on his recommendations. 

"What did Dr. M say today?" asked Ev when he returned home to find his puffy-eyed wife sitting quietly in her dirty white shorts. 

"He said that I should party like a rockstar," I replied with quiet confidence. 

So that's what I did. 

With an exceptional group of friends ready to participate, I fed that biatch knee pina coladas, malibu and juice, vodka and club soda....you name it - the knee got it. 

Typically at the lake, we sit around the campfire and chat into the night - we rarely have nights past midnight or 1am, but I was on a mission. I had gotten this left biatch knee drunk and I wanted to take advantage of it. 

We found ourselves at a campfire down the road, where we met up with some more exceptional people. Only good things can happen when exceptional people party with exceptional people. As the night progressed, something magical happened. An impromptu beach dance party erupted and carried on into the wee hours of the morning. It was epic. As Pitbull blasted, "Give me everything tonight...for all we know we might not get tomorrow..." about 15 of us danced our hearts out on the sand, under the stars. I'm not sure exactly how I "danced." I suspect that it wasn't pretty. I kinda awkwardly clung onto objects or people, and I certainly admit to a little bit of jumping on that biatch left knee - but it was in no shape to complain...and I did not give a care or even think twice about it. 

Then there was this moment of drunken clarity. As I danced with reckless abandon on that cool sand, just like a regular, real person at a beach party, I looked up at the stars and thought, "This is living. This is one of those amazing, fantastic moments in life." The moment lasted for a split second and then I was right back in there, arms flailing in the air as Pitbull chanted, "grab somebody sexy tell them heeeeeeey!"

It wasn't all happy endings and fairy tales. The knees certainly protested the next day...and the day after....and maybe the day after that. In addition, my exceptional group of friends were anything BUT exceptional the next day. They were so totally hung over and useless that they could barely get out of bed....and unfortunately lawyer's husband lost his favourite pair of socks in the sand (who wears socks to a beach party?) But it was completely worth it and I will never forget that priceless moment under the stars. I wasn't looking for that moment. I wasn't searching for that feeling - I just went with it. It just happened. Que sera sera.

Sometimes that's a risk you just gotta take.