So Here I Am

So here I am, in an unfamiliar position with an all too familiar pain. I’m not one for lying down during the day, my napping intentions rarely result in rest – I cleverly find tasks to occupy myself. But today, I’m somewhat proud to admit that I did a good amount of lying down and reading. Laying still is an enormous challenge, but an injury has arrived and I’m very keen on its departure.

I pulled too hard yesterday, felt a pop under my lower left ribs and abandoned my last climb of the day. When I got to the bottom I knew something was not right, but I tried not to think one very wrong thought: I’ve torn my obliques. My mind raced back two years ago to the day – the start of my convalescence - the jump, the spin, the bad landing the wretched pain that accompanied every breath, laugh and bowel movement. It was the start of an epic snowfall and I was on the mountain playing in the powder. Overcome by giddiness, under the spell of a deepening blanket of fluffy snow, I hucked and came short. I landed in a twist that blasted the air clear from my lungs. When my breath returned I let loose a loud obscenity (wouldn’t have been so bad if I wasn’t under a chair lift filled with school kids).

It’s amazing how the body remembers pain. If you listen carefully you’ll hear which parts need the most attention – the most protection. These are the muscles that call out when you push them to the edge – or in my case – pull too hard. I usually listen very carefully and avoid putting myself in injury’s way. I’m not too proud to say NO to severely crimpy holds when I stand the chance of popping a finger tendon. I even let go of big, juggy holds with sharp edges that cut into my palms. I knew that I was tired but I gave the climb one more last push, I crossed the line and now I’m paying the price.

On the hike out from the Sunny & Steep wall, I used my arms to support and lower myself down in between two boulders; a simple maneuver that requires abdominal stability. When I felt my instability the reality of my injury kicked in, a lump formed in my throat. So much for our renewed vow to climb regularly – I regrettably told Rik that I needed some time off. Unfortunately the hike out was not over. Our bikes and a bumpy trail lay ahead.

The riding was not so bad, so long as I stayed on my seat and avoided using my core. Getting on and off of my bike was difficult and grew increasingly ungraceful. My worst dismount was completely unplanned. Moving too slowly through a patch of big rocks my front tire wedged and my bike dropped to its side. For fear of smacking my pubic bone (an unfortunate move I made on the ride in) I leapt off and pedaled my feet through the air. I landed without further injury but was shaken to my unstable core. I crouched into a ball and sobbed out a few breaths. Rik walked with me, a quiet and sad retreat. It wasn’t just my bum luck, he was without a climbing partner. The tears finally came when I tried to climb into our truck. Memories of my snowboarding injury resurfaced. The kind stranger who offered to drive me back into town. I was so immobile that it took two men to lift me into the passenger seat. I gnawed on my mitts the whole ride down the mountain, choking back tears, trying to be tough.

Healing was an excruciatingly slow process, spent mostly alone, in someone else’s house. The snow fell for what felt like an eternity. As it got deeper, I sank into a morose funk and became recluse. I drew the blinds shut and dreaded the calls from friends who were still high from their floating turns and face shots. I stayed indoors for weeks. I took up pastels; the bright colours lifted my heart from darkness. I didn’t take any pain killers. I wasn’t playing the martyr or trying to prolong my suffering. I didn’t want squelch the signals that told me how fast and far I could go.

My first outing was a trip to the doctor’s office. I moved at a turtle’s pace, an elderly gentleman opened the door for me. I watched with awe and envy as the receptionist bent over to pick a pen up off the floor. She moved so quickly and effortlessly. Right then and there I pledged that I would never take mobility for granted. I’m not sure how long it took, but I eventually forgot my pledge.

Fast forward two years. I guess it was high time to remember. Rik reminded me of the Buddhist proverb: good luck, bad luck, who knows? It’s awfully dark when you find yourself at the bottom of a well but you know that the light is right overhead. I entertained the notion that this was a blessing in disguise. I hardly believed it but just trying look on the brightside made me smile.