This Body In Motion

On Thursday, I had my second post-op appointment pertaining to my pelvis and my right shoulder. This appointment is a full day’s commitment, driving from home to Harborview then back, with a Costco stop before arriving home. It’s not egregious, but full nonetheless.

I’m seven weeks out from surgery. They did x-rays of my pelvis and shoulder. The pelvis is where it is supposed to be. The shoulder is still separated and is only getting more and more contracted. The human assessing me is Marisa, a nurse practitioner. She is bright and smiley, laughing easily, despite all the questions I have at the ready. She shows me my pelvis x-ray. All the screws are accounted for and where they are supposed to be. My stiffening shoulder needs some work. She hears my complaints about the pain I experience while sitting and she checks the previous scans when I came to Harborview to stay. “You fractured your coccyx.” This makes all the sense and I am relieved to hear this news. I thought I might be going crazy with my seemingly unprovoked discomfort while sitting. There is no intervention or treatment, just confirmation that I sitting should not be this uncomfortable.

I ask her about walking, wanting her to go on the record with a specific date when I might be able to take my first steps. I’ve prepared for the worst. On our first post-op apportionment, the resident extended my wheelchair time from eight to ten weeks. Today, Marisa says, “I’m not sure who told you 10 weeks, but we don’t usually allow weight bearing in an injury like this until week 12.“ She’s not making as much eye contact as she was just a moment ago.

“Twelve weeks?” My voice rises with all the drama and displeasure residing in my chest. Immediately, here are beads of distress on my upper lip.

“Yeah, that’s the usual time frame.”

“I’m going to need you to pass me those tissues next to you.”

She keeps it light. I hold my tears. She answers all our questions, as if there are no other patients waiting for her expertise. It is generous and we are grateful…except for those words she just casually uttered.

She steps out, saying, “I’m going to print you a script for PT and a letter to return to work. I’m going to check with the surgeon about the 12 weeks.” I make some comment to not come back unless she has good news.

Marisa works fast. Within moments I get a text notification that the PT script is done and in MyChart. The letter to return to work follows quickly - another text. Minutes later she is back with my letters in hand.

She sits on the stool and she begins to talk, when I interject. “You gotta look me in the eyes if you’re going to tell me bad news.” She laughs and looks me directly in my eyes.

I change my mind. This is worse.

“So I talked to Dr. Githens (surgeon) and he is okay with you starting to walk on August 4.” If I could bear my weight, I would be dancing right now. “Also, if you want to start using a walker, you can start walking with 25% of weight on your right leg.” I am dumbfounded. Just a moment ago an extra two weeks were threatened. Now, she is tantalizing me with some time at the rails of a walker. She’s not done. “Oh, and I asked Dr. Githens about your coccyx…he confirmed it’s fractured.” I am fine with all of this news. The only news that I don’t like is that she tells me I cannot do any big impact activities for six months. In my little head plans have already been plotted for a hike or two before the snow flies. Six months puts me just outside my dreams. Also, pickleball will have to wait. I am crushed, but the dangling carrot of walking soothes this ache. So be it.

Marisa’s kindness lasts throughout our visit. When we are done, she offers to bring the wheelchair back in the exam room. “Nah, I’m just going to walk out of here,” She laughs, but it’s time I take my jokes on the road. If attempted, I would likely fall over like a newly born foal. Let’s save that for home.

Once home, I take some halting steps with the walker. There is pain in my left knee, ankle, and foot, but I am “walking.” The quotes are not to minimize this milestone, but to call it what it is and this is definitely hobbling. The important part is that for a moment, I am not sitting. Standing, I cannot help but feel buoyant with delight.

On Friday morning, I dawdle through my usual routine, my motivation low. This surprises me. With yesterday’s news but only one sleep away, it’s as though I’ve forgotten that today I can do something other than sit. Without having an additional thought, motivation trickles in. I don’t have to be sitting right now.

I floss (because I skipped last night’s flossing and I’ve promised myself to not take any shortcuts). This is the only way I can make up for the shortcut I took last night on my way to bed. I work on The Collapse. This story of my previous days is requiring a fair amount of my time and emotional capacity. Then, I get after the least exciting chores. I scrub the toilet bowls and seats. I wipe the sinks. I do three loads of laundry. I start stuffing the seventy-five sack lunches for Sunday. I eat a breakfast that is now lunch. I feel overwhelmingly tired and attempt a nap in three different spots. No attempt is successful. For the first time in days, I allow myself to rest. I focus on breathing. I do some mental self-talk - It’s okay to just rest even if you can’t sleep. It’s okay to do the rest of your chores while tired. You can do this. This feels heroic after last week’s implosion.

I get up and formulate a plan. I wheel over to the wall and do some finger crawls up the wall, stretching out my contracted shoulder. I do ten of these. The shoulder sparks and twinges. I open up my shoulder and let it rest against the wall behind me. It all burns. I count to thirty. My body finds its breath. I can feel my brain sharpening, slipping into the second that is right in front of me. I smile.

I got out to the garage and open the third bay, the one for our little gym. A friend calls. He is in Canada with other friends. We chat for a bit. They are going backpacking. I’m envious, of course, but I feel gratitude for their call. They are just calling to check in on me and how the appointment went yesterday. I can’t help but smile. There care lands and I hold it for a moment, reveling in this privilege.

I pull out the pickleball net that another friend dropped off for me. This is a net that is about six feet tall and returns the ball to me…if I hit it well. I only lose one ball down the driveway. I hit the ball for 20 minutes. This might be too much excitement for me in one day. Pace yourself, Wheelchair Boy.

I strap ten pound weights to my ankles and do seated leg raises. I do fifty on each side. I am doing something.

I grab an eight pound weight and do hanging circles with my right arm. Twinges spark in my shoulder. Marisa said I couldn’t hurt it, so now I get to test what I still have and maybe push it a little.

When I was first discharged from Harborview, the nurse was going over what I could and could not do. “What about rowing?” I asked. She didn’t laugh in my face, but that was the gist of the answer.

Today, now that I’ve completed my little circuit. I eye my rower skeptically. It eyes me back. There are a few obstacles to overcome with anything I am thinking about doing. The rower’s seat is lower than anything I have sat on in the last seven weeks. Once I am on it, can I get back up? What if I fall of this moving object? Will this be too much for my repaired neck?

I don’t make time for any of these answers. They feel rhetorical. I’ll be fine. What could go wrong? Clearly, I am thinking clearly.

I pivot onto the rowing seat. No trouble. I reach for the damper and move it all the way to the bottom - One. I have never rowed on One. I do one leg-extension and one pull. I’m a bit clumsy with it, both the coordination of movement as well as the lighter pull.

I do another.

Better.

I feel nothing. No twinges…no pulling or catches or stabs or pokes or strains.

I am rowing.

The stress on my body is minor to unnoticeable. I am on high alert. Rowing isn’t something that Marisa specifically okayed. I am here, trusting my body to let me know how it is doing in this new activity.  I will row 500 meters. The thought is to go slow, to be able to do this again tomorrow or the next day.

I get to 100 meters, and not quickly. The damper’s setting of one let’s in much less air and so the flywheel moves with the slightest of efforts. This ease means I’m not going very far with each pull. More pulls, but less intensity. This feels on brand for the day’s activities.

I am to 300 meters in and the sweat is barely beading. One kilometer it is. There is a joy that wells up within me. I am rowing. It’s a pitiful showing, but I could not be more pleased with this body in motion. If Oliver were here, he would me mocking me and cheering for me. I miss him right now. This rowing will forever be tied to thoughts of him.

I make it to 1000 meters and do no more. I am elated. My body feels…fine. I transfer back into the wheelchair and roll back across the black mats.

Old things, but new.

I pull the walker to this side of the garage. It’s time for some walking. Let me be clear. I am not walking. I am upright, but this is a hobble and nothing more. I walk across the garage and back. On my second effort I walk out of the garage and to the edge of the driveway. On the way back, things start to twinge and shake. I’m at least 15 feet from the wheelchair. Lying down is not an option. I hobble faster. If the Sweet Wife came home and I was just supine on the garage floor, I may not be trusted with alone time again.

I make it to the wheelchair and breathe. I did things today. I am smug about these halting steps. I’m going to sleep good tonight. I hope.

I do more writing. I make spaghetti for dinner. The Sweet Wife comes home and I am still writing. I cannot wait for sleep, but tonight it’s not because I want to be unconscious for this passing of time, but because I’m tired and I want to be rested for my efforts tomorrow. How fickle I am. I’d like to not be fickle. I’d like to be strong and resilient and gracious even in the midst of this suffering, but I’m not I haven’t been. I am scared and bored and irritated and forlorn. Today, today though, I was given some light and I am holding all that I can carry in my greedy, scrawny arms.