Now that I have vented my spleen, worked up into a frenzy over posts that I really knew better than to read, I am much calmer.

My usual restraint was worn a bit thin by my own self-pity.  My leg is not healing.  Or, as my husband will remind me – it is not healing as fast as I want it to.

After five weeks, there is no hard bone growth.  In fact, the fracture has widened by about 1 mm.  See-you-back-in-a-month, and good luck with that cast.

I know that it sometimes takes up to 8 weeks to see hard callus formation.

I know that sometimes the gap appears to widen while bone remodeling is occuring.

I know all this.

But I also know that this means I still can’t wear my jeans, I am still banished to my chair in the corner of the room, and I still cannot drive.  I still have to pretend I am being independent while I rely on everyone to cover my slack, and I need to try not to be surly about it in the process.  I am failing miserably at that part.

I never claimed to be a good patient.  I am an exasperatingly impatient one.  I hate being a “burden” with all my will to hate.  And here’s the rub – in trying NOT to be a burden, I inadvertantly may have created this situation.  I may have put too much stress on the break, and too soon, and ended up prolonging my current irritatingly dependent state.

And yes, my husband is thinking “I told you so.”

If anyone can knit with furious surliness, I have accomplished it.  Apparently my bones haven’t quite gotten the memo.