Kristin's 15-year-old brother was in town last week, and plans were in the works to go bowling on one of his last days here. The outing was never realised, and I can't say I'm too disappointed. The thought of trying to bowl left-handed with a six-pound ball (in which the finger holes would inevitably be too small) was not exactly thrilling-- and my therapists were none too keen on the idea either. Even left-handed.

A couple of friends from college are driving down on Thursday, and so it looks like I may have plans for the Fourth after all. My observances of the past few years have been decidedly dim-- two of the three weren't even in the country (not that I'm complaining)-- and the idea of grilling and shooting off a few fireworks with a small group of friends is very appealing. There's discussion of going downtown or out to Galveston, but I think I'd rather avoid the crowds.

Immobility breeds immobility. I know this well. And yet at some point it becomes far easier (in the short-term) to slog mindlessly along rather than make the effort to drag myself out of this morass of stupefying inertia.

And that pretty much sums up the past several days of my life.

This seems to be a lamentably easy state of affairs to achieve (if "achieve" is at all the appropriate word to describe such a slimy and slippery descent into lethargic hell) when one is living with one's parents.

Sometimes you have to take a step back in order to see clearly enough to move forward.
Right now I'm just trying to figure out which direction forward might be.

But the week I spent in Oklahoma was a good start. As the second installment in the "Prove I Really Am Alive" tour, it was quite a success. (A couple of my friends think that we should print up t-shirts: Sarah Potter, Alive and Kickin' in 2003. Have one of my more spectacular x-rays screenprinted onto the back of the shirt. Bring in some bands to do benefit concerts.) And being there and talking with people softened the horrible aimlessness and fear of the future that confronts me every day. There are desirable possibilities. Many of them. Or several, at least.

Time spent in the orthopedic surgeon's waiting room is always a good chance to regain some perspective. By this point I look fairly normal-- I can sit in a chair for more than a few minutes without looking (and feeling) extremely uncomfortable-- and so I almost feel like a fake, needlessly consuming time and space in a place where the real injured bring their pain to the altar in hopes of being healed. Of course, a simple reach with my right arm for a magazine on the table next to me, or the recollection of that painful twist in my upper arm resulting from attempting to steer with both hands while in the parking lot, is enough to reassure me that I too have the unwelcome and unrequested right to be here.

Still-- I have no cast or bandage or wheelchair, and my bright pink scars are concealed beneath my clothing. What do these others-- the "real injured"-- think as they see me sitting here, apparently whole and healthy?
Suck it up. You're not that bad off. Clearly.

But I left Egypt because of this, a selfish inner voice protests. I have tragedy too.

Yeah. Well. Suck it up. After this appointment I will get in the car and drive myself to physical therapy. Tomorrow I drive alone to Fort Worth, and then on to Norman on Friday.
It could be worse.

I am in... have been in... the doldrums of recovery. There's my excuse for not posting. It's just been difficult to believe that anyone would care to read dismal postings about the repetitious pettiness of my current existence.

But today, hamd-el-allah (I miss saying that), is a definite improvement over the past week and a half or so. Life doesn't seem quite so drainingly bleak as it has most often lately. The prospect of my trip to Norman this weekend contributes to that, I'm sure.