A coin-sized whirlpool

Notes from the long tail-end of recovery

I’ve spent the last four months aching to feel comfortable in my body again. Whether it is a matter of attention or reality, some part of my body has seared and bucked against any effort to relax. The pain arrives mysteriously and departs just as suddenly. Every time a particular ache fades, a new one emerges smaller and sharper. Over time, my focus has expanded beyond sitting comfortably upright. The pain drains less of my attention as I push against its boundaries, longing to do anything but sit.  

One of my first ventures after my external hardware was removed was to northern Michigan. My grandma and mom led the way to the beach, and I swayed in the sand, the phantom weight of the bar pulling at my hips. I stood by while they heaved my kayak into the waves, and then I lowered myself into the seat, settling gingerly into an upright posture.

My mom shoved me from shore. The sand scraped and waves sloshed in, but after a moment adrift, Lake Michigan gently rocked me. I paddled tentatively at first, listening for a groan from my sacrum, then giddily in the silence. There was no whisper of the pain that had plagued me for months. I waited a moment for my mom to acquire a paddleboard, and then we pointed north.  

Throughout my recovery, I’ve resisted the siren songs of transformation and redemption. I hardly think these are expectations anyone has of me, but they’re desires I’ve found myself battling all the same. I’ve done my best not to make grand plans of return, stronger than ever. Still, I get attached to the idea of “by this date, I’ll be able...” and find myself disappointed when the deadlines pass and I’m still in the dark about just how long anything takes. I’m consistently not only wrong, but I’ve based these milestones on... nothing. While I was in the hospital, the trauma surgeon told me that my hardware would come out in 8-12 weeks, so I started planning to show up for cyclocross training in August. 

If you don’t already know how ludicrous that is, it’s racing your bike on what amounts to an obstacle course. Falling is inevitable. And I’ve never tried it before. As it turns out, I likely won’t be cleared to ride a bike for months yet, because people with freshly knit bones have no business falling. I’ve set similarly uninformed goals for climbing, hiking, and swimming. I thought I’d be backpacking by now. My PT would prefer I lay on the floor and clench my abs. 

But on the lake, none of those timelines mattered. The water glittered as I dragged coin-sized whirlpools through it. Gliding along, arms and paddles striving forward, I forgot to think of my back. A summer of maneuvering a wheelchair had earned me some arm endurance, if nothing else. I skimmed along the shoreline, passing familiar landmarks–the cold stream, the bubbling springs, the house with a blue roof.

It’s hard to avoid the notion that I must come back stronger from this. The community in my life has shown up in such beautiful and meaningful ways, and they’ve brought the small unsure sayings that we all seem to converge on, including my favorite: “Your arms will be so strong by the end of this!” I’m not sure why we do this, but I have in turn parroted the phrase to fill awkward silences as someone grasps for something comforting to say. 

And my arms burned with strength as I left my mother in my wake. After weeks of feeling exhausted by a flight of stairs, I was unable to resist the satisfaction of propelling myself along at three miles an hour. I began to envision building upon that strength, a fantasy I apply to nearly all my hobbies: pedaling, climbing, and exploring higher and further. But I find myself in a kayak at most twice a year. At a loss to describe what it would mean to be “better” at kayaking, the fantasy faded. Eventually, I decided to stop stringing my mother along, who gave chase with one paddle, and turned back to our little beach. 

There’s little use in pretending some miracle will occur in the process of recovery. There are many tiny victories (relaxing on the couch! Walking to the library! Dancing in the kitchen!), but there’s no reason that I should come back stronger. Or that the strength I possessed prior to the accident was guaranteed to last for long. I was in the best shape of my life, which was a moving target as I barrelled through personal bests, one after the other. And I was guaranteed to lose some of it at the end of the cycling season. I’d be a fool to mythologize myself in May of 2024 as a standard self.

While I was in the hospital, unable to lift a leg, a friend made me a PowerPoint of athletes who’ve recovered from various heinous injuries, only to triumph in their sports again. All summer, the Olympics announcers rattled off stories of setbacks, injuries, and glory while I wheeled around aimlessly, dreaming of the brush of wind. Several well-known cyclists have returned to elite racing from pelvic fractures and car crashes. The Princess of Wales is just as polished as before her cancer. The models I have for recovery and redemption were simply returning to their own normals, in realities I will never know. 

The splash of the water against the hull clamored as it always had. The strain in my shoulders was familiar if delayed in arrival. I was a little older than the last time the lake held me. Just as I would be a fool to think trauma must be followed by greater triumph, it’s foolish to try to return to the exact moment before the accident. I was happy. But I know that months of watching the visiting birds rather than soaring down hills will change my relationship with sport, which was rapidly evolving, as it always has. There’s no stagnant reality to go back to. To stay sane, the only return I can make is to a sense of exploration and wonder. My wheelchair calluses will fade. I’ve only raced my bike a handful of times. I’ve never been a regular, let alone strong, kayaker. But basking in the glittering water, I don’t particularly care where I’m going, for a brief moment the cry of gulls and tangle of wind is enough.

Happy trails,

Mumble

Written on Potawatomi lands.