bearer of weight and good news

I saw the doc today. Didn't want to mention it before because I didn't want to inflate my hopes. I was led in for x rays and let the technician regale me with details of his various (thirteen to be exact) trips to the rose city. He brings the sun, apparently. I kind of believed him as he skipped from my leg to the machine dropping pert observations like confetti. I found an article about time travel in a Discovery magazine that I would like to finish. Then I was led to a room to wait. Still, no expectations.

When the doctor told me that I was healing beautifully, right on schedule and ready for weight, I froze. Weight bearing. A milestone! And something I've been waiting to hear for some time now. I could almost see the expression that was on my face as he quickly ran through my timeline, my new life frame. I don't think these doctors realize how much their words effect me. I hang on, trying to will them to slow so that my body and mind can digest them more fully. They feed me. A slot machine of emotions, I had only minutes to retaliate with intelligent questions. I offered nothing but an open mouth.

It is all laid out before me: 2 weeks walking with crutches and my boot, 2 weeks walking w/o boot and one crutch.... then, as I see fit, eventually walking on my own. I start physical therapy tomorrow. I had been hoping to be walking by mid April. According to the orthopedic, when I see him next, in 6 weeks, my bones will be completely healed and I will be ready for high impact. Meaning running. Running!

It feels so good to put my foot on the floor and press down. The poor thing had deadened a little and lights up with the smallest pressure. It is so.nice. to be stepping forward. I got on the stationary bike for 15 minutes and couldn't help the loud guffaws that escaped. At first, I didn't recognize that they were coming from me. Motion, my most treasured friend, I welcome you back in my life with open arms. This day was important.

Thank you, snow

I reside in the Hudson Valley of New York. Atop quite a tall hill, we are stationed. The view from my second floor room is lovely. Mt. Stissing, due right. My Mother and her husband, Ed, have a goal to hike to the top of every mountain above such and such altitude. I forget how many they've racked up.

Snow had been drifting all day and was quilting the street, stitch by stitch. Careful acceleration in a vehicle with 4 wheel drive. Still, we slid along a ditch in our attempt to broach the driveway, landing inches from the neighbors' mailbox.

Ed responded to our call armed with a sled and a shovel. He was met, he noted, with a block party at the end of the driveway. There was a car that was being pushed up the road by four or five teenage boys. Another stranded in the driveway next to ours.

My broken leg and I were positioned on the sled and Ed pulled us up the long, steep driveway. I used to run sets up and down this patch of asphalt. Ten would do it - well.

Back in the house, Millet and I waited by the fire for an hour or so for the accomplishment of managing the car into the garage to be announced. This is what I remember of New York winters. Sending out rescue parties to save friends who had been abandoned along the road in blizzards. Slipping underneath a car while trying to cross the street because the blanket was so thick that I couldn't stop being folded into it. Going a week without heat, substituting whiskey, before the city could fully respond to an ice storm in Buffalo.

I loved it. The sled ride. The day. The taste of snow.

My mood has completely shifted. Despite being broken, I feel whole. I no longer yearn for things I can not be a part of. There is no longer a forced time line on my recovery. Just acceptance that my body will do its job at the rate it feels up to it.

After immersing myself (and almost drowning), I have resurfaced calm. Until this point, I have never dealt with so much in my life. I left town after town at the drop of a hat, or relationship, and had no idea how to realize the source of my emotions. Bad at communicating because I couldn't share what I didn't know myself. My last post was a step towards opening my inner cavern, the space where the things I can't deal with are ensconced, one by one.

I am learning. So much. Not just what I don't want, which is what formerly constituted a revelation. What I do want. By opening myself up I can see who I am - all of it.

I am using this time and am finally not wishing to be anywhere else. The future holds so much, but it is the present that will take me there. I have already started. Thank you, Saturn Return, for forcing me to jettison my hidden cargo. It's so much lighter without it. Who knows, Ed may never have reached the top of the hill had not I purged. :)

Is this real life?

Pain meds really fuck you up. The night I was admitted to the hospital for my leg injury, I was on at least four different forms. Muscle relaxant on the way to the hospital that sprang from a friend's bag and into my pain-laden, greedy hand. Percocet once I was wheeled into admittance. "Hospital strength" Ibuprofen. Something through an IV for the task to reset my leg before getting me upstairs to my deluxe room with a view. I was scared and dealing with my worst nightmare. Hoping for the best, but told I would have surgery. Nothing was explained- I was informed. I couldn't think rationally; there were questions and emotions pouring out of me, every which way. And I was still in pain.

It was under these circumstances that a friend "gave me what I wanted." Not what she claimed she wanted.

I wanted a hug and support. What I got was a sexual advance. Looking back, I know it isn't something that would have happened had I not been in the situation that I was in. It makes me feel dirty and ashamed. Out of surgery, I not only had to deal with what had happened to my body while I was completely unaware and on the operating table, but also what had happened to it the night prior.

To wake up and have had something so intimate, so encroaching happen and have no, or very little, memory of it is a sobering and overwhelming feeling. I envision the rod in there, nestled in my tibia, but wish I could see it on it's own. It runs down the entire length of my leg from my knee to my ankle. How big is it? How heavy? Titanium? How do you put a rod inside a bone? The plate is embedded with screws that are now uncomfortable as they press against my walking cast. I can feel them. I am so dissociated from my leg that I want to find a recording of an orthopedic procedure similar to mine. I can't stand blood and gore, especially when it's *real,* but the need to understand what happened to me outweighs my squeamish tendencies. I'm coming to peace with it as my leg is more and more recognizable and time passes. Outwardly, at least.

The youtube video of little David (linked at the top of the page) after dental surgery got my attention because his questions cut right to the heart of it: "Is this real life? Is this gonna be forever? Why is this happening to me?" I was already lost by a tragic circumstance. Drugs took me further from my experience, leaving me unable to actually deal with it. Things happened to me that I did not feel a part of. I am still coming to terms with that now.

There's nothing I can do about my broken leg or the fact that I needed surgery to correct that. There was an end to that means.

I'd like to instill an end into my other hospital experience. I reached out, and the meaning of that should have been respected, not overstepped. I was not, in fact, given what "I wanted." No one wants to be taken advantage of. I need to voice this so that I can move on- assimilate what happened TO me into experiences that are o.k. with me. David, your Dad was right; it doesn't last forever. Thank goodness for that.

make do! and mend

I've been a little dead over the past three days. Non-responsive. Lethargic. Ornery. I watched two entire seasons of Dexter knitting a sock furiously, eyes glazing over.

Just before this, my knee started to swell. I had started massaging the scar tissue around my incisions as they were slowly healing. I noticed a bulbous, fluid-filled sack at the bottom of my knee. It was hot and, upon application of my palm, felt like there was a tiny mechanism inside- creaking around, in need of a good bit of oil. Scary. The doctor told me to ice it for the next few weeks. He ripped off my remaining steri strips- the ones along my ankle, deepest spot of intrusion. I was told that these would just "fall off," and had been gingerly testing their progress over the last two weeks. Gentle, loving explorations into their continued hold on my skin. He just tore them off, one after another. It was the same way with my cast two weeks ago. These things are part of my body. Or they have been, adopted because they are on the limb of my focus. My progress charted by their existence or removal. As they are stripped away, these medical bandages leave me breathless.

So I went home, again discouraged. I am a positive person, believe me. I am going to accupuncture, taking homeopathics (ledum and symphytum), Jarrow's Bone Up, bone & cartilege tinctures, doing comfrey compresses, drinking nettle and horsetail tea. Visualizing my leg whole, healed and moving.

This incident took me back to helplessness. What had I done wrong to create this new part to coddle and watch? For the first time in my Catholic school upbringing, I feel the need for faith. There is really nothing more that I can do to effect healing. I must trust that my bones will pony up. My body will acclimate to the metal imbedded in it's fibers. Let time wash over me. I was ok with this until the knee complication.

Thus, my lapse. No floor exercises. No ankle movement. Blog abandoned. Facebook and human contact scorned.

I thought I would use this time as I always have. With projects and progress. Add a little introspection into that. I am failing outright. Movement was such a big part of my life that I can't seem to think without it. I wanted to, finally, figure out what I want. What do I want? Why can't I answer that question?

I have always been sure about derby. Four years, almost, since I started skating. I went on trips, left for a summer for a farming internship, but always came back to it. Goals for 2010 were structured around roller derby. It's that simple. Now that it's taken away, at least for a little while and my layers are being stripped away, why can't I create other goals for myself?

I can't waste this time. Make, do and mend. Make do and mend. Make do! and Mend. As a friend said, "focus on mending. Not just patching, but mending... making your leg, your mind, yourself better/more that what they were before the break." But how do I do that?

O, mighty muscle, I miss you

Growing up, I was always skinny. Stick legs, jutting out hips, razor butt bones. I was like a little gnat that couldn't stop moving. Once I hit high school and puberty (late), I was diagnosed with Type I, juvenile diabetes- right before soccer season started sophomore year. I started to put on a little more weight, but also, muscle. It wasn't until after college and the journey into my mid twenties that I have been able to achieve my "derby" body.

Now, don't get me wrong. My thighs have always been somewhat formidable relative to my size. The future destination for me, trite words meant to sum up our attributes as we left high school, was to "kick ass." This was a compliment, but I wasn't sure where it would apply.

(picture on left, 1 wk before injury; picture on right, I'm the one on the right in the pink sweater)

For the last three years, my goal has been this very thing. Derby. Skating faster. Better. I even have grandiose dreams that the sport will make it to the Olympics someday. I was on my way to travel team, thereby kicking ass across the country.

For the last three weeks, I have watched my legs shrivel to their former peg-like quality. I've lost 20 pounds of muscle and 5 inches from my left thigh (3 from my right). The hardest part of this injury is not the healing process, albeit slow, or the sitting still, painful, true, but that I have to watch my body deteriorate every step of the way.

I know what you think. All of my energy is going into healing my bones. That obsessively measuring my thighs may not be the best thing to focus on. That I'm exaggerating. That I started out with more muscle than most, so what harm would it be to lose some? I'll gain it back in no time! All of these things I know to be true. Thank you. This does not sway my alienation nor my rage at forced resignation. Leg lifts don't help much, I've tried.

This post is for my thigh. My left one in particular. O, mighty muscle, I miss you.

Flying

I don't want to ever fly again. Last week, I flew from Portland to NY with a broken leg, my dog and my mother. It was a trying experience. I am ready, I think, to write about it.

Airlines are required to make room for you if you have an injury. My Mom booked the flight, securing roomy seats for me and space for my pup underneath. I was taken by wheelchair through security (not through the metal detectors, although I'm sure my metal leg would have set it off) while my Mom shouldered the burden of three, full bags. My first crutching experience began, sideways, in the journey to my back row seats. I fell asleep for almost the entire four hours, clutching my teddy bear, only waking to notice glances from strangers on the way to the bathroom. At this point, I could barely move leg since my knee had been cut open during surgery. Going to the bathroom was dicey. The small amount I could bend it was, just barely, the exact amount needed to fit into the tiny enclosure.

In Chicago, we were ferried to our next gate, my leg sticking straight out with no support, in a wheelchair driven by a worker filled with contempt and boredom. I was exhausting myself by shear exposure to the hustle and bustle. Again, my Mom with the three bags. Our gate and the surrounding area was overly full, but we managed a few seats, I think, by our lost and frantic expressions.

We prepared. Our flight was a small one, as it was heading to White Plains, NY, not the city. It was raining so my Mom secured a trash bag from a janitor. Any water and my cast would tighten about my cut-up and bruised leg. Wheelchair ordered. Ramp called for. There were many flights leaving from the same gate, people scurrying and impatiently awaiting their turn. Others stared blankly at a computer screen of some size.

Instead of loading me in first, they forgot. The entire flight had boarded and the gate was closing. My Mom and I were freaking out. The wheelchair was there, but no one was with it. Some random airline worker agreed to take me in the elevator, but it was her first time, so my leg suffered a blow. Down by the plane, we all realized the ramp had not arrived. There was no way I could crutch up those steep, removable stairs. No way. Millet was already on the plane and I was convinced they would leave us. But they didn't. Twenty-five minutes later, I was pushed up the ramp and then hobbled to my seat, everyone starting at the interloper that caused the delay. Only two seats this time: my leg stuck out in the aisle for the entire two hour flight. No one moved. The stewardess went by twice with the drink cart, both times sweetly warning me and otherwise narrowly avoiding my toes with her thighs as she swished past.

I know that I will fly again. It's inevitable, really. But I have choices. I will avoid a layover in Chicago at all costs. I will wait to be healed to fly. For, I can not deal with relying on strangers to transport me ever again.

Leg over heart

My days have been filled with obsessively awaiting my appointment with my orthopedic. I would be getting my cast off in lieu of a removable one. They would be impressed with how well I was doing. I would be getting a timeline for recovery (finally!) so that I could henceforth focus not just on bending my knee, but walking. I would see my leg, something I had become completely disconnected with even though it is what hinders my every move, weighs down my outlook, my presence and my frame.

The staples were taken out, and the cotton pealed away, layer by layer. My leg was signed by the doctor whom had completed my surgery, securing alienation. My skin looked reptilian. Dessicated, puffy and a myriad of shades of blue, brown, yellow. The cuts are deep, notably in my ankle where the plate and six little screws went in.

I was told to wait. That my bones hadn't healed at all in two weeks, nor should I have expected them to. Despite my focus on leg exercises and bending my knee, outward progress, there was none internally at all. Four more weeks with no weight on my leg. This means leg above heart. Leg extended over four pillows.

My pleas for something, anything, that I could do to help this process along went nowhere. The doctor was miffed at my insistence and haughtily asked me why I thought I could heal faster than every other person who had come through his office. He did tell me to take an Aspirin a day to prevent blood clots due to inactivity. So I wouldn't have a fucking aneurysm. I still may. Who knows.

I came home deflated. It would be another two and a half to three months before I would be able to function "normally." A month before I could (maybe) start going to physical therapy and actively strive for progress.

Patience. This word has never been my strong suit. And now it is my everything. It has to be. It's been shoved deep into me, filling my body with rage and repugnance.

I was able to talk to a fellow derby girl, Angry Wrench, last night about her recovery progress. She sustained a similar injury four months ago. I fell silent, mesmerized by her flow of recounts- everything she had to say applied to me. She offered her physical therapy protocol, counsel and hope. It's humbling how linked we are because of sharing such a devastating experience. Separately, but, still, shared. Although the doctor did not offer me any, Wrench gave me validation. One of the last things she said to me was, "you know, I think we're going to be friends." I think so, too.

That night, my brother, sister-in-law and nephews arrived for a visit. Aidan gave me his stuffed kitty to hold and had drawn me a picture, ever the sweet little artist. Connor made me tea and hugged me dearly. A pile of books and yarn. A little light.

The ups and downs are peaks and ditches, not mere speed bumps. All my excitement for bathing my leg ceased this morning when my stomach, instead, pooled with dread. I was slow to take off my clothes and my new storm trooper boot. Pants off, my thigh is half the size it was two weeks ago. My ankle is larger than my tiny, j-ello appendage that I don't even recognize to be my own. I sobbed as I was soaping it up, trying to remove the betodyne and erase the remaining cotton and blood. A block of wood, my ankle.

I am now, only now, truly accepting the limitations of my injury.

It's going to be a resplendent spring and summer. I'm going to ride my bike. Scream. Run. Jump. Dance. Take out the trash. Cook. Go hiking. O, yeah, and skate my heart out. My leg will no longer be over it, rather, supporting it. It will be free, holding hands with my spirit.

one hour at a time

I drew the hermit card which is all about delving
into self-prudence, awareness, loneliness. I'm reading
a book by Natalie Goldberg called "A Long Quiet
Highway."  She is a writer and Zen Buddhist whom talks
about the need to be completely present in order to
reach inside yourself to produce writing. I'm working
on being quiet. I sit outside nestled under piles of
fleece in the cold, cold sunny days. I read. Listen to
the birds. Throw a ball (not far) for Millet to fetch.
Of course, I have my lapses. I cry. My leg is
awakening... pins and needles, nerve tinglies and a
dull, aching pain. My knee keeps popping as I shift my
weight to find a comfortable spot and a pocket of sleep.
This worries me a little, but there is no discomfort
accompanying it, just noise.

In the morning, I take vitamins and supplements, sometimes
get a shower aided by my mother, a plastic chair, hand
held shower head and a trash bag taped over my knee-high
cast. I descend the long and steep staircase on my butt-
one step, slowly, then another, leg held ahead of me,
straight and heavy. If I start to chat, my mom stops me.
Focus. Each movement counts. After meals, hospital
ordained exercises, facebook revelry, et al I again
handle the stairs. Going up is a little harder,
especially at the end of a long and listless, yet
exhausting, day.

I am thankful for my strength. It allows me to balance as
I brush my teeth and get up from the floor and back on my
crutches after ass-ascending to bed. My arms carried me-
sideways crutching- down the aisle of an airplane to the
very last row of seats, the ones by the bathroom where
everyone peers at you while they're waiting to pee. I am
worried to lose this strength. As my muscles atrophy,
however, my mental resolve will flourish.

hello, new leg with metal bits

Today I bent my knee 6 inches off the couch, and it was a grand achievement. It's been a smidge over a week since I had surgery for the spiral fracture I sustained in both my tibia and fibula. A roller derby injury from a night of Wednesday scrimmage, it happened mere days before the opening bout. I just fell.

Already, I had been working on slowing my life down a bit. Listening to my breathing, especially when exercising, and making the most of it. Being aware of my body as I pushed it to its limits. Running and biking in rhythm to avoid opening my mouth to gasp for air. That Wednesday was the first night I was bringing this practice into derby. This is what I find to be the most awkward admission of the injury: it wasn't clumsiness with which I fell. It's a lesson that I will learn from, as any hardship is. But it will also keep me still. I guess my inclination to slow down wasn't done quickly enough.

I cried on the way to the hospital, and in fits since then, because it was a shock. I was strong, in shape and healthy. I had been convinced that only ladies that threw themselves into derby without any prior athleticism got injured. My body was used to the laps of the track, the crossovers, countless falls and hits. In fact, I was sure that it thrived on it. I didn't look at my leg that night, not once, for fear that I wouldn't recognize it and the path I was now heading down.

Surgery happened amidst a fog of IV painkillers. It's not something I was ready for; it was just something I had acquiesced to. I was going to be fixed, but they were going to completely fuck me up in the process. I wasn't awake when they did it, wasn't aware when they explained it to me and have only been in my body since I got off the meds. The pain made sure of this.

I am alone. Not because of loneliness. In fact, I have only felt love and genuine support and care from my derby community, friends and family. To the point, in fact, that it makes me tear up just thinking about it. This is my greatest challenge thus far. There is metal and screws to hold my bones together and I must relearn how to use my leg, slowly, and with patience. Each hour of every day I am now lucid, I try to feel the fullness of the drag of time. Because, it, along with the full embrace of my loved ones and league, is what will heal me.