In the Fall

 

Have you ever had one of those serious “ah ha” moments?  While I’ve had a few, I would say that on a dramatic scale, September 28^th was far and above the winner in this.

It started out like any other day – it completely changed me.  You see, I fell three steps from a ladder.  Doesn’t sound like much, does it?  Three steps, that’s barely a stumble.  But the people who say “it’s not the fall, it’s the landing – well, they’re right”.  It was definitely the landing that did me in. 

One minute I was on the third step of a stepladder in a client’s house, peering into the attic.  The next thing I remember is being on the floor, and looking down at my right foot.  It wasn’t at the end of my leg where it was supposed to be.  It was beside my ankle.  Trust me, that’s not a good place for a foot to be, and as I looked at it, I started to realize that it hurt.  A lot. 

I laid back down, bent my left knee, and put my right – sideways – foot on it.  Carefully, because even that movement hurt.   (This is where experience with pain comes in handy).  I looked at my client and said “I think we should call 911 now”.  Thankfully, she was a PSW and not freaking out, as I was probably in shock.

The paramedics were kind, and did their best to be gentle – but standing up a broken 5’6½” woman in a 3’x3’ hallway is challenging, and that funky chair they have that walks down stairs is seriously scary.  At that moment, I was most grateful for morphine, and the Gravol they offered once I was safely in the ambulance.  There are definitely parts I don’t remember. By the time we hit hospital #1, there was a large part of me which still believed that they’d just straighten my ankle, it would hurt for a while, and I’d continue with my life. 

Boy, was I wrong. 

After a couple series of x-rays, a straightened ankle, and still more morphine, they’d worked out that my ankle needed bigger help than the smaller hospital could give, and were preparing to send me to a bigger hospital for bigger help.  Meanwhile, I’d worked out a few things too:

-          When you’re in that much pain, morphine really just takes the edge off.  It doesn’t deaden anything, unfortunately. 

-          I wasn’t just going to get my ankle straightened and walk out of there.

Neither of these realizations was exciting or inspiring – then, or now.

Enter new hospital, new doctors and nurses, and a surgeon who specialized in these things.  The surgeon earned my undying admiration by demanding more pain medication for me – it seems the hospital was being cautious in ensuring I wasn’t too doped up when they were ready for me in surgery.  It also seems that orthopedic surgeons don’t typically operate at 3am.  I’m grateful that mine did.

The good news was that I only broke one bone – fairly miraculous if you saw the 90-degree ankle my foot was on.  The bad news was that – as with most things – I did this thoroughly, and while there are apparently all kinds of minor talus fractures, mine was … well, not one of those. My surgeon describes it as fishing for the bone on the wrong side of my foot, and the parallel scars on my ankle certainly bear testament to that.

I spent about 3½ months in a “non-weight-bearing” state.   I couldn’t walk.  I couldn’t drive.  Heck, I couldn’t even carry an ordinary coffee cup (or plate, or bowl) from the kitchen to the recliner where I spent my days, nights, evenings … you get the picture.  I couldn’t get in or out of my wonderfully deep bathtub, or the raised shower.  (I was SO sick of sponge baths …)

On January 11^th, 2018, the day finally came.  I sat on the examination table at my physiotherapist’s office.  My cast was off.  I had my cane.  I had my physiotherapist – who was also a friend – to help and support me.  And yet, I was terrified. It didn’t make a lot of sense – after all, I’d been walking for nearly 50 years before I fell.  This should come back easily, right?  My therapist said “don’t worry, I won’t let you fall”.  I knew he was right.  He wouldn’t let me fall.  I said “I trust you”.  And I realized that the person I didn’t trust was myself.

I didn’t trust my ankle to hold me.

I didn’t trust what my changed life would hold.

I didn’t trust my ability to move forward.

I’d spent the last three months cocooned.  Afraid.  And for the most part, hiding.

I walked that day.  If you see my personal Facebook posts, you’ll see the video. But it took a lot longer for me to come back to the rest of life. About a month after I walked, I started driving – in small increments for the first few months, though in a Canadian winter, a “short drive” can vary drastically.

By the time I’d been walking for a year, I was closer to my old self.  I connected with some people.  I wasn’t afraid to go places.  I was actively involved in my Toastmasters club again.

Three years later, as I reflect on the lessons I learned, and changes I would have made, a few things stand out:

-          I wish I’d pushed myself – or been pushed harder – not to curl into myself and hide.  I think more connection with people who cared would have done me a lot of good.

-          Change is the one constant in life.  And my life needed a change, though this isn’t how I would have arranged it.

-          Trusting myself is always the first step.

According to the doctors, my ankle won’t ever be as it was.  It’s easy to say “well, that sounds negative”, but I’ve seen the x-rays. Barring a miracle, I think they’re right, and they’re rather unanimous in their opinion. But that’s only one part of me – there are so many other things I can do, learn and develop. 

Today’s life lesson is this: while we can’t change things that have happened, we fully control the way we respond to them.  And I feel a whole lot better by responding with my whole self.