Pain, management

The director of the program where I had my first job out of college recently went in for his second hip surgery. A group text got circulated, the kind that encourages people to reach out and well wish. I was a week late with my communication, and even then called at a bad time. A few days after that, he called me back, and filled me in on his recovery and retirement. And rehabilitation. He explained the pain of the program, of the discomfort of building up strength again, in preparation for when the pain medication runs dry and one has to endure without supplement. He told me about a lady he used to see at the hospital, recovering from a knee procedure, and how she would always cut corners. He saw her some months later, apparently. She had a limp, and would forever require the use of a cane.

I used to be pretty good at math. Or, Maths. I thought that when the cover for the second book arrived, I'd be able to hustle through the publishing process. The problem was that I peeked at the manuscript again. I'll read the first few chapters, I thought. I found an error on the first page, and a better way to phrase a few things on the second page, and third page. By the end of the prologue, I was disappointed with myself about how I had left things. I groaned and grumbled about going through it all over again, page to page, line by line. I had to remind myself that this is what I wanted. I wanted to publish the version of these books that I wanted to publish, with no back and forth with an editor and no stipulations in contracts. Even with the reminder, I really, really wanted to cut some corners.

Then the cover came, and suddenly, I was the one holding up my own progress. I went over the halfway mark of the book and things cleared up. I would make an adjustment here and there, a stronger verb, a more concise description, better sentence structure, but overall, I wasn't grumbling anymore, at least about the kinds of things I should have fixed. I tell students I meet often that writing is a process, that perfect never happens. So, I am able to recline somewhat. But with every week, my schedule gets busier. The random vagaries of the day to day confound a moment here and there where I might be pushing forward. I've even gotten sick a couple times. And I think about how it's mostly good. I'm probably done with the roughest parts. But now one of the voices I hear is my former boss'.

I don't know how to describe the meaningfulness of these random stories I come across. I had a script for the conversation with my old boss. I'd ask him how his hip was; he'd ask me about my new job; we'd also discuss my father. Somewhere in there I was expecting, hoping, that he would tell me what he always used to tell me: that I was good enough to be whatever I wanted. But I ended up learning about rehab. I knew that it was difficult, but I didn't know that it was hard because it hurt. I didn't know that it was an activity performed in preparation of a future contentment, and not just about fixing something in the present. Hard decisions now for better outcomes later.

So, I guess I'll be combing all the way through, every page, every line. It won't be perfect, but I will be able to say that it was as good as I could make it, at the time. And I guess that takes as long as it takes.