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.