Fruitless Frustration

Frustration, a feeling of dissatisfaction resulting from unfulfilled needs or unresolved problems, has unfortunately become my predominant state of mind. This agitation, which began to dominate my thought processes, seems somewhat ridiculous and ill timed. Now is the period of mobility, now is the time of physical progress, so why should now be the epoch of internal struggle? My attempts to debar these introspections failed miserably, and fruitless frustration continued to perturb my consciousness. It seemed embarrassing and humiliating to admit this weakness when I had formerly accepted family, friends, acquaintances and stranger’s blandishments regarding my strength and supposed lack of self-pity. Outsiders visit and visualize with voluptuous pleasure that I am now vertical. Yet, I view the virile visitor, and am reminded of my restrictions and restricted lifestyle.

Six months was my allowance, the time I had allocated as a health write off, no plans, no firm expectations and therefore minimal disappointment, or such was the theory. Yet, six months is three weeks away and I am far from exciting excursions and expeditions. On the day of my surgery, as electrodes were being forcefully glued onto head, furious phone calls to Wyndham’s theatre were distracting or diverting my attention. A hospital gown, white stockings and electrodes, causing my lustrous locks to be restyled into the coiffure of a mad scientist, were the perfect persuasive tools for my mother to buy tickets to see David Tennant and Catherine Tate in the Shakespeare play, Much Ado About Nothing. Yet, now the witty sparring between Benedick and Beatrice seems further away than Messina. I find my despondency over something as insignificant, in the scale of my life, as a theatre ticket, beyond ludicrous. I am sure that my surgeon would describe me as naïve and unrealistic to have set six months in stone and therefore in the words of Dogberry,

“O that he were here to write me down an ass! But masters, remember that I am an ass. Though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.”

90 Minutes/Days Of Agony

Last night was a rollercoaster of emotions, Spurs vs AC Milan, the match to secure Tottenham’s place in the last eight of the Champion’s League. I was expecting attack, excitement and goals to revel in. I was anticipating cheering and chanting.  I was prepared for action, activity and to see unexpected agility. Instead a tense, testing time elapsed, pushing the team in an unexpected direction, defence. Defence lacks the thrill and adventure of attack. Rather than pushing forward, we are forced to protect what we hold dear, and hope that it is enough to progress in the competition.

Like Spurs last night, defence is, at present, my only form of attack. Recovery has not been filled with goals or reasons to jump for joy, even if that were physically possible. It is instead a game of perseverance, a game requiring the back to stay strong, literally. The muscle cramps have set in, but in my game there are no substitutes. I am in the 52^nd day of the match. At 90 days, the first twelve weeks are over and I qualify for the quarterfinals! Who knows what my players will have to face in the future, but Harry Redknapp, my rubicund manager, speaks for all the team when he says,

“It's been a great adventure and we want more of it. We want to see if we can go all the way."