Do you ever wonder if things are getting harder or are you just having a wobble? In reality they're probably the same as they've always been, yet you've convinced yourself you're now playing on the next level of difficulty in this game we call life. I've been feeling this a lot lately, and I've realised simply this: things aren't harder! Nor are you now 'less hard' and suddenly very weak. You're just having a wobble! An 'off day'. It always used to happen to me around mid-week in my ice skating days... I'd call it ‘Wobbly Wednesday’, which obviously isn't great when you're flying round with blades on your feet. By Thursday I’d be fine! I'm learning it's OK to have a wobble. To feel overwhelmed, slightly pathetic, a bit shaky or not as strong as the week before on the leg press machine.
I'm also still learning that our hormones play a MASSIVE part in this. Physically, emotionally and bone density wise. Before I jetted off to Goodwood, I had a lot of wobble inducing things to do; The first being a funeral of a close family friend who's been there through all the ups and downs of the last 15 years. Me and her daughter are the same age and there were so many parallels with my mums funeral. I wouldn't have missed it for the world, but I was definitely in a more wobbly place as it was just two days after my mum's anniversary. Emotions were running high since I got back from Paris. It hit me like the train I missed from Gar Du Nord. I think we all feel a little bit lost on funeral days, not knowing what to do with ourselves before or after the event. Usually you'd go to the wake, to gather and decompress with fellow loved ones. Soothing each other’s wobbly states. But if you're me, you have another leg appointment to attend, at my least favourite place: Wythenshawe Hospital. I was NOT in the mood. White tear streaks stained down my face, cutting through my makeup like tramlines, and my lashes all stuck together now my tear-drenched mascara had re-dried, resembling decrepit spider legs. Not that that mattered to the audience in the fracture clinic waiting area.
Compared to them, I didn't appear to be doing so bad, now I'm back in one piece. I got chatting to the lady next to me on crutches as we compared injuries, and I reassured her she'd be off the sticks in no time! Even though I didn't actually know. I had my x-rays done and had that familiar pang of gratitude that I: A) could walk myself down the hall rather than being wheeled in a wheelchair. B) this wasn't costing me anything- God bless NHS! And C) I wasn't pregnant.
After discussing the results with the specialist, my inner wobbles were soothed when we saw all the lumpy new bone that had formed, and we could no longer see the massive crack through my femur! The bone broth collagen, occasional fillet steak, all my many supplements, superstar physio, hyperbaric oxygen chambers, all collectively bankrupting me, had worked! Successfully regrowing my bone in just slightly over the expected time frame, despite my osteoporosis. Result! Now the only other problems: the pain in my knee, it's lumpy appearance unmatching my right one and the fact it still won't fully bend! The doctor sensed my growing frustration as I began showing him all the yoga poses, seated meditation positions and general manoeuvres like crouching down to say hi to a dog or small child running towards you, that I still could not do.
“Not to mention cleaning my alloys...!” I continued. When I eventually stopped complaining he gently reminded me I've “had a very big accident” and “it's going to take at least a year for full recovery.”
Thanks for the reassurance Doc, but don't then hit me with a worry hammer on my way out by saying it might NEVER fully bend again, as I’m doing my best strut out the door. I guess I just had to keep chipping away at it. I've come so far; I need to keep reminding myself of that and stay focused. Keep believing! Keep listening to ‘Journey’ on repeat.
Speaking of tunes, I then spent a final day chained to my laptop, doing the last tune prep for Goodwood. I don't think people realise with DJing that it doesn't just 'happen'… They don't see the weeks/ days/ hours spent sourcing the perfect tunes, scouring the Internet for a decent 320kpbs MP3 of something that won't give me a virus, or all the shit you have to sift through in the form of record label promos, that still get sent to me since my radio broadcasting days. Sure, there are some absolute gems in there, but it takes a long time to find them. Longer than it takes to find that hidden gem on the rails of a city centre TK Maxx. And contrary to what you might believe about DJs, many tunes we have to BUY! Actually purchase them, like an honest person in the general public who never once used LimeWire as a kid. Obviously, I'd rather not have to spend a chunk of my wage buying overpriced downloads, but they are the tools of my trade after all, and make me more excited than a handyman gets over a Milwaukee drill.
With tunes locked and loaded, and Pedro packed to the brim, I set off down to Chichester for my annual pilgrimage and longest drive of the year. This time with extra ballast from my pink mini fridge, my Nespresso machine and an extra sense of heaviness from my heart. This drive last year came just days after I lost mum and as much as I put on a performance as the DJ I was booked as, I remember shattering inside. I truly hoped the event this year would spark joy in me once again, rather than sadness from the similarities of the year before. I'm happy to report it was incredible, after I'd cried all the way there and had the most near miss I'd ever had in Pedro when I almost collided with a camper van. It was entirely my fault and looking back, I was in no fit state to drive, due to emotion and sheer exhaustion. My legs turned to jelly and it was a big wake up call.
Thankfully there's no better remedy than Goodwood Festival of Speed for pretty much anything. If you've never been, I like to tell people “it's Glastonbury- but for cars!” One of my favourite gigs of the year, made even more magic by seeing those people that you only ever see on that annual event. Thank you to all of you who came by to say hello or deliver jelly babies! Of all the many jobs, DJing is definitely the least Femur-friendly though, as I found myself naturally bouncing on it to keep timing for 9 hours.
I did NOT feel great, but it made laying on my Premier Inn bed in complete silence, surrounded by several Tesco meal deals and M&S fruit each evening, feel even better.
Sadly, there was no ‘Sad Gym’ in the Premier Inn as I like to call most soulless hotel gyms, so I'd have to wait till I got home to get back to my leg rehab routine. Before then I had several important engagements: a trip to Brighton, then Berkhamsted, an awards assembly at the school my mum previously ran, Pedro’s first Porsche service, then a follow up with the expensive Endocrinologist. I thought all the medical surprises for ‘Sophie's body’ had finally slowed down and I knew what I was dealing with, yet this next appointment provided another curveball I didn't see coming. Much like that enormous camper van…
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