Exactly one month ago today, I had a minor ski accident. I did not realize that would be my last time on skis this season. An x-ray and an MRI later, I learned that I tore a meniscus. Translation? I got a bum knee that will not heal itself. The only way around it is surgery. Well, actually, the other way is to suffer through sporadic throbs of inexplicable knee discomfort for an indeterminate period of time.
I've never really had any kind of surgery before and while I'm trying to be logical about the whole thing, today I'm reserving my right to be frustrated and freaked out. Surgery seems such a silly fix for such a small accident. I should not be subject to anesthesia and needles. And the idea of staying immobile for a few days in recovery, worse, in crutches, is just extremely appalling.
But the alternative is exponentially worse. A sedentary life of not being able to do much else is obviously unacceptable. (Especially not in the year I'm planning a Patagonia trek.)
And while I sulk and evaluate my non-choices, I am in dire need of a pick-me-up. A couple of weeks ago, we drove to Yosemite for the weekend. These pictures remind me that no matter what one is going through, we are still but just a tiny speck in the vast universe.
And in the end, everything is alright.