What kind of story is this?

Not another athlete comeback tale

Dear reader, 

I have been resisting writing for months. I haven’t always known what to make of my reluctance, whether I’m listening to my intuition or if I’ve been too tired for the effort. Either way, taking a break from a hobby that required constant self-awareness and analysis has been a relief. What was initially a challenging and rewarding practice became a project in mining my days for insight and meaning. 

I came to think of the winter, and then the spring, as a fallow period for personal essays. A time to explore other creative practices: to start a garden, to train for an ultra-distance bike race. I wanted to know what I would do unobserved by myself and others. 

I put away my notebook until it felt like there was something worth saying. The ground thawed, and still, I did not write.

Then, on Memorial Day weekend, I got hit by a car. 

The urge to write, to make meaning, to understand why, reared its head immediately. 

In the early days in the hospital, the panic about how I ended up there only made me more miserable. I’d listen to the incessant chirping of equipment and wonder if my broken pelvis was a lesson. I’d reply with a “<3” to a paragraph-long kind text, at a loss for words. I didn’t know how I’d explain the accident to myself, let alone all my friends. But even then, I knew the why was that I made a judgment error, and there was a car where I hadn’t expected one. It was shit luck. 

There was no good story, even as I agonized over why I was going to spend the summer in a wheelchair, and how I would cope.

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I spend most of my days at the kitchen table, looking out the sliding glass door. We installed the bird feeder a few feet away. The goldfinches were the first to arrive, creeping down the hanging wire onto the carabiner, peering inside to see if I’d move. They repeat this ritual a dozen times a day before fluttering down to the perch. They don’t trust me yet, and retreat to the apple tree if I turn my head too quickly or take a sip of coffee. 

When the seed starts to disappear too quickly, I roll onto the deck, and only the chickadees dare to fly close. I had visions for a flower and herb garden, envisioning a summer of reclining near my plants. The seedlings were started and pots carefully arranged in the spring, but I spent nearly every free hour in my bike seat, with no time to watch them grow. In the weeks I spent in the hospital, the bulbs and tubers sprouted, and the dill climbed to unwieldy heights. The foliage fans out, the leaves more recognizable as the distinct plants I’d sowed. It’s slow and all of a sudden.

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How am I? 

I’m waiting. Nothing I do now will make my bones settle and knit together faster. The less I fret about it, the better. I wrap my wounds in gauze each morning in a daze, littering wrappers and medicine cups around the trash can. I practice flexing my quads and bending my knee, and one day I can lift my leg, just a few inches. In the weeks leading up to the accident, I was soaring through an endurance training plan, an endless cycle of miles and counting carbs. My fitness was slow-building, and then all at once I felt invincible. Now, my evenings stretch out, empty when there aren’t visitors. 

A fellow cyclist pointed me towards Headspace’s Sports Rehab meditation course. The program asks you to envision a warm light in the injured area, where the body is fixing itself in its own time. The bones will find their way back to each other and will fuse. There’s nothing to do, really, but wait. The day will come for physical therapy, for the rigorous return to sport. But not yet.

All there is to do is rest. To watch the dahlias grow and to hunt the caterpillars on the nasturtiums. To refill the birdfeeder (or, rather, notice that Jeremy has done it) and wait for the cardinal’s tentative return. The chickadees are scruffy and curious up close. Their feathers puff out around their ayes. The goldfinches are impossibly brilliant, and they’re afraid of my water bottle. My body is starting to look familiar as the swelling drains. It’s starting to feel like mine again. 

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As the initial shock wears off, the question of “why?” is replaced with “What will I make of this?” How will I grow? Is this a tale of triumph? If so, do I need to behave differently? Perhaps I’ll feel wiser in a year or two, or amazed at my ability to heal, given enough time. I’ll certainly be more cautious on my bike. But in this waiting period, there’s little material to work with. I’m just sitting and watching the birds. The story I tell will change as it ages, sweetening, perhaps, with the glaze of recovery. But still, I must rest. 

So, if it’s not the time to transform, maybe it’s time to take notice. To see what is already true. To know the cycling community I’ve been giddy to build will take care of me, offering more food than I can eat. To trust old friends to reach out. To remember I love to read, knit, and watch thunderstorms lumber past. To realize how lucky I am to love my hometown. To feel the call to write again. 

How do I get through this?

As patiently as I can.

Happy trails, 

Mumble

Thank you to everyone who has reached out and offered food, time, company, and support. I’m overwhelmed by the amount of love I’ve felt the last few weeks.