Reflections On a Beating
My 42nd year has not begun auspiciously. 6 days after having my face pounded, the swelling has gone down and my vision returned to normal (in fact, both occurred, remarkably rapidly, over the course of Saturday). However, I can't say that I have entirely returned to normal.
Now, I'm not that good at interpreting my own feelings at the best of times; too often I believe what I would like to be true of myself rather than what is. Saturday was proof of that, as I told Laura one thing and found out that I meant something quite different only later on, leading to the all-too-familiar cycle of hurt and anger to which we periodically subject ourselves.
Add to that apparently cyclical relationship downtime the after-affects of having my head pounded bloody last Thursday and I have been understandably (I think) distracted and sometimes self-pitying. I don't much like either feeling, but they are there and I am better off facing them than pretending they don't exist.
Speaking of face and head, I spent Tuesday morning at the Toronto Western Hospital, where I underwent a CT scan and a very thorough examination by an intern whose demeanour showed me why it is so many women seem to find doctor's handsome. Dr. Kohly was friendly, professional and seemingly very competent. She showed flashes of both humour and impatience and she carries herself straight and tops herself off with a gorgeous shock of long, black hair. A very attractive combination - but then, I've long been proud of being aware (and unashamed) of my "feminine" side.
But I digress.
When I got in last night, there was a message from her waiting in my voicemail box. She left her pager number and asked me to call it as soon as possible. She wanted to discuss the CT scan results. Nothing to worry about, she said, "But don't blow your nose."
Naturally, this gave me pause. When she finally (finally!) called me back, she told me that I have a couple of fractures, that my eye and/or my eye-socket is a little sunken and that I may be facing surgery to repair the damage. If someone from "Plastic" doesn't call me by tomorrow to set up a consultation, I am to call her again so that she can arrange it.
And so that's where things stand.
I am remarkably pain free - I haven't taken so much as an aspirin since the attack - but am apparently relatively seriously damaged. I am without glasses and can't get them replaced for at least a couple of weeks because my "prescription might change during that time". And I do flash back to those thirty long seconds when I found myself, on my back, while someone very strong was pounding my face as hard as he could.
I don't feel traumatized, but it is hard not to wonder if I am in some kind of denial. Certainly, our popular culture would have it that I must be, that in fact I should be seeing some kind of counsellor or something.
And I do find it odd that I am feeling little or no anger about what happened. Laura wants to find the guy, other people have talked about tracking him down - but for what purpose? Well, I am considering the possibility of calling the police, but since I don't think I would even recognize him, I'm not sure there's much point - though Laura is sure that she would, as is our other companion that evening.
But still, it is odd that I am not angry. Or maybe not. Anger won't undo what happened; anger won't unsink my cheek, un-fracture my bones or fix my broken glasses. The best it might achieve is to get him put away for - what? - six months? Maybe less?
It seems a little strange to me, but I seem to be thinking of the incident almost as if it was a cosmic accident, as if I'd been clouted by a tiny meteorite, or a very heavy hailstone.
And I guess that's about all I have to say about it right now. Life goes on.
Now, I'm not that good at interpreting my own feelings at the best of times; too often I believe what I would like to be true of myself rather than what is. Saturday was proof of that, as I told Laura one thing and found out that I meant something quite different only later on, leading to the all-too-familiar cycle of hurt and anger to which we periodically subject ourselves.
Add to that apparently cyclical relationship downtime the after-affects of having my head pounded bloody last Thursday and I have been understandably (I think) distracted and sometimes self-pitying. I don't much like either feeling, but they are there and I am better off facing them than pretending they don't exist.
Speaking of face and head, I spent Tuesday morning at the Toronto Western Hospital, where I underwent a CT scan and a very thorough examination by an intern whose demeanour showed me why it is so many women seem to find doctor's handsome. Dr. Kohly was friendly, professional and seemingly very competent. She showed flashes of both humour and impatience and she carries herself straight and tops herself off with a gorgeous shock of long, black hair. A very attractive combination - but then, I've long been proud of being aware (and unashamed) of my "feminine" side.
But I digress.
When I got in last night, there was a message from her waiting in my voicemail box. She left her pager number and asked me to call it as soon as possible. She wanted to discuss the CT scan results. Nothing to worry about, she said, "But don't blow your nose."
Naturally, this gave me pause. When she finally (finally!) called me back, she told me that I have a couple of fractures, that my eye and/or my eye-socket is a little sunken and that I may be facing surgery to repair the damage. If someone from "Plastic" doesn't call me by tomorrow to set up a consultation, I am to call her again so that she can arrange it.
And so that's where things stand.
I am remarkably pain free - I haven't taken so much as an aspirin since the attack - but am apparently relatively seriously damaged. I am without glasses and can't get them replaced for at least a couple of weeks because my "prescription might change during that time". And I do flash back to those thirty long seconds when I found myself, on my back, while someone very strong was pounding my face as hard as he could.
I don't feel traumatized, but it is hard not to wonder if I am in some kind of denial. Certainly, our popular culture would have it that I must be, that in fact I should be seeing some kind of counsellor or something.
And I do find it odd that I am feeling little or no anger about what happened. Laura wants to find the guy, other people have talked about tracking him down - but for what purpose? Well, I am considering the possibility of calling the police, but since I don't think I would even recognize him, I'm not sure there's much point - though Laura is sure that she would, as is our other companion that evening.
But still, it is odd that I am not angry. Or maybe not. Anger won't undo what happened; anger won't unsink my cheek, un-fracture my bones or fix my broken glasses. The best it might achieve is to get him put away for - what? - six months? Maybe less?
It seems a little strange to me, but I seem to be thinking of the incident almost as if it was a cosmic accident, as if I'd been clouted by a tiny meteorite, or a very heavy hailstone.
And I guess that's about all I have to say about it right now. Life goes on.