Rehab

I've never thought of myself as someone who takes their body for granted.  I mean, I'm as guilty as the next person of sitting too much and putting more buttery sugar in my mouth than I probably should, but I would say that I put more effort than the average person into keeping the motor running smoothly.

The last three months have been an exercise in understanding both the amazing powers of my body and the devastating limitations.  I had always been cognizant of the risk of injury in a full contact sport where you have wheels screwed to the bottoms of your boots.  I knew one day my number would be up.  And I think most of those around me who had forewarned me and naysay-ed when I first strapped on my helmet and skates felt a small amount of satisfaction to know they were finally right when they heard that I'd broken my ankle.  But I don't think anybody expected that the reason my toes were pointing in a completely unnatural sideways-y-upwards position on April 30th was because my wheels were just a little too sticky as I went over a teensy lip between two different surfaces at a speed that was just a little too speedy while I was trying to slow down a very fast game.  I drink my milk.  I'm not a habitual coffee drinker.  I've always been on the heavy side.  My bones should be invincible.  My fibula shattered like so much glass.

Two weeks into my journey, I was back on my feet.  I had a walking cast for 6 weeks, and though I couldn't drive, or swim, or shower standing up, I could walk almost without a limp and almost as fast as I ever could with two virgin legs.  And after 8 weeks, aside from the super gross athlete's foot and the fact that none of my pants fit me anymore, I felt very little pain in my broken ankle.  I honestly thought when the cast came off that it would be like nothing happened.  Because I drank my milk.  I took my vitamin D.  I walked the shit out of that walking cast.  My bones should have been stronger than ever.  Meanwhile, the muscles around them had wasted away to tiny, inflexible threads.  They expressed their angry fatigue with an almost constant ache.  The fluid that those muscles would normally pump away pooled around my ankle.  My physiotherapist said my strength and range of motion were pretty typical of my injury.  I felt so stupid.

With a sport like roller derby there's a community, and in that community are people who have had similar injuries, so I know there's life after ORIF surgery.  I know that if I stick with my physio exercises and keep pushing myself I'll get back to where I was, and perhaps keep on going.  Every time I look at the hook-shaped scar on my inner ankle I think, "I can rebuild" and do another calf raise, go on another bike ride, stretch another theraband.  I've hired a personal trainer to help get my strength and endurance back so I can come back to my sport with my fists up.  And I'm seeing improvements.  I can almost do a single-leg calf raise with my broken leg.  I can almost point my toe without crying.  I can almost go a whole day without compression socks and not see my foot become a swollen balloon by the end of it.  And those are good things.  But then I think back to those women who've come back from their injuries and see how well they're doing and wonder to myself "Am I working as hard as they did?  Did they feel this pain at this point? Do I seriously have what it takes to come back from this?"  As much as I feel extremely motivated to get back to where I was, I can hear my self-doubt knocking at the back door.  I really hope I don't let it in.