On the Cusp

Tomorrow, I go back to work. On Tuesday, it will be 12 weeks since I fell, since death popped into my life, took a look around, shrugged, saying, “Maybe later.” and disappeared. And so I live.

I don’t pretend to know what happened that day. There are many who are confident that they do know. Just the mere fact that I am here feels miraculous, but I am okay leaving it at that, something beyond my knowing, beyond my comprehension. Regardless of my peace, the list of what-ifs are endless.

What if I didn’t wake up?

What if I didn’t have my phone in my pocket?

What if I didn’t zip up my pocket before my traverse?

What if I didn’t have reception?

What if I was forced to spend the night out there on the snow?

What if I had been able to move off the snow?

What if I slid all the way into the rocks below the snow field?

What if I had hit my hit a bit harder?

What if my vertebrae slid just a millimeter or two more into my spinal cord?

What if I had bled out?

What if I had fallen off the other side of the ridge?

What if the weather was poor?

What if no one was available to pick me up in their handy-dandy helicopter?

What if…?

All I know is that I did wake up and I did have my phone and I did have reception and I was able to call 911 and I was able to communicate where I was and what happened and they came for me when I needed their help the most, when I couldn’t do anything to save myself. In mere seconds, I became dependent upon everyone around me, and they, well, you, showed up in ways I still struggle to comprehend, both then and now.

And tomorrow I get to go back to work. For three months I have held this day in my mind. Every day I sat in my wheelchair, I’ve pictured being able to walk, being able to return to work, and do what I love. I’ve willed myself to get here, if will has anything to do with it, to this night, the cusp of what I know to be baseline, what I feel in my core to be normal. In addition, aside from the value and worth I sponge from the work I do, I actually like it. The work is fine, sure, but I really like the people I get to do it with. Like, a lot. And so tomorrow, I get to go back to work, a finish line of sorts, that allows me to exist with a certain level of freedom and with the humans I adore.

Two Tuesdays ago, I started walking. Last Thursday, Joseph, a PA at Harborview, freed me of my neck shackle. If you were to look at me, I almost look normal. If you were to look closely, you may notice the scars criss-crossing my scalp or the scar running along my spine that pokes above my collar or the limp I have when I walk, residual reminders of a day that went sideways.

This morning we got to serve breakfast at a local shelter in town. I’ve been looking forward to doing this as much as going back to work. We made huevos rancheros with some hash browns and watermelon on the side. Being able to serve breakfast to hungry humans is nothing short of a privilege - it causes me such joy. But within this external act, I was present in my body, feeling what it felt like to be on my feet for five hours, preparing and serving food, doing dishes, and cleaning floors and bathrooms. My body took a beating, but it is rather content to have survived what I asked of it. This gives me confidence for my tomorrow and the days that follow it.

But it’s not all high-kicks and rainbows over here. Before I rant, I feel the need to qualify my complaints, as if letting you know that I am still grateful even though I am frustrated with my pain and limitations I still have. And yet, this is the both/and of this living. I am in a space where my gratitude is thick, maybe the thickest I have known it to be. Also, I am having pain that threatens to drop me to my knees and lay me out.

My left ankle is cantankerous, moody. I can hobble about, but occasionally it feels as if a knife is being placed under my left lateral malleolus. It struggles to hold my weight while I wince and gasp and cuss. I elevate it. I ice it. I pray for it. And still, it hurts something fierce.

My right shoulder, the one that suffered the separation, the one that I was assured would have only cosmetic issues going forward, is having something more than cosmetic issues. I cannot lift my shoulder above my head. It isn’t painful, but it gets stuck. It seems that the distal end of the clavicle is limiting the shoulder joint from being able to do what it is supposed to do - rotate. I do not like this limitation even though I am sure there is a fix for it either by patience and PT or surgery. My next appointment with the ortho folks is September 3rd. In the interim, I will do my work and try to conjure up some patience.

And I may be getting a bit nit-picky with my whining, but my pants don’t fit. With all this sitting and simultaneous eating I have done, I am…pudgy, and it’s not cute. I’m not sure I have more to say on this, only that I am frustrated that the thing I know to do - exercise - is causing me significant amounts of pain…and so I sit and store up fat for my winter hibernation when all I want to do is run into the woods and then repeat this activity over and over until I am blissfully exhausted and calorie deficient.

And yet…I am alive. I am here. I can drive. I can row. I can leave the house. I can make love to my Sweet Wife. I can shower standing up. I can walk into the garden. I can mow the lawn. I can snuggle the Sweet Wife without my c-collar scraping her face off. I can turn my head from side-to-side. I can get onto the floor…and back up. I can lift things. I can still hit the pickleball around. I can laugh. I can participate in this living. I can give instead of just being given to. And I can go back to work. There is life yet to be lived and I want all of it. I imagine myself with a big glass of cold water, head tilted back and I am drinking as fast as I can, but the water overflows my mouth and lips and dribbles off my chin and onto my chest. This is the living I want to do and I think it is available to me even now.

On the cusp of what is still to come.