It’s been five years. It’s awfully surreal. So long ago. But also yesterday.
For better or worse, anniversaries make us pause and reflect, don’t they? I’ve struggled with what to say about where I am with the whole ordeal of the crash, five years in. Or to say anything at all.
But I think it’s important to acknowledge this unfortunate anniversary. And be honest about the path to this point. Because it’s an endless path. It changes, yes. But there simply isn’t an end-point in this journey of living with the fallout from an event like this in my life, both physically and emotionally. It’s a life sentence for someone else’s error.
The pain sucks
I’m fairly accustomed to my “new normal” physically at this point. There’s never a day it doesn’t suck. There’s just sort of a baseline suckage and it goes downhill from there.
Yes, I still do a lot of what I love for the most part. But even on the best days, there’s still pain management. Physical therapy will be with me forever. I can never let my guard down on that or I end up hurting worse.
I’m always aware of the rod in my femur and the clips holding my cobbled-together femoral artery intact. The scars suck and are a constant, unpleasant reminder. One of these days I’ll get some gorgeous tattoo to make something better of them. But I’ve got other things to tend to right now.
And I still slam up against unexpected limitations. In a motorcycle skills class back in September, my leg failed me. Big time. I didn’t see that coming. I’ve worked really damn hard for the last five years to rebuild strength and mobility and have made great progress. But it wasn’t enough to handle the bikes we used there. I spent the day in a spiral of frustration and failure.
Most days are fine now, though. The emotional roller coaster is less and less tumultuous with the passing days. But it’s always there. And I never know when I won’t be in charge of how that plays out.
There is a certain hint of melancholy to this anniversary. I imagine there always will be. But in the end, I’m ok in spite of the struggle to get to a good place and stay there. I still do a lot of cool stuff. And I still have wonderful people in my life who love me. I’m still a happy person. And I’ll still keep on doing my thing.
The point I find myself coming around to in this post is a message to you all—be deliberate and kind with your words to the people in your life who are in similar situations. Remember the malleable but permanent nature of these things in our human experience. Honor their struggle. Take care you’re not unintentionally dismissive about the fact that it’s carried with that person every day at some level or another, even years later. There’s no such thing as “back to normal” in these scenarios. There’s just moving forward.
I’m in the home stretch on my latest round of physical therapy and I will be released to self-maintenance very soon. Frankenleg is improving at a glacial pace but that’s how this kind of thing goes. I’ve seen solid improvement in my strength since restarting physical therapy about six months ago. It’s most noticeable when getting the bike off the side stand, especially at an awkward camber—something that I’ve struggled with since the 2015 crash.
But the best improvement is less pain on a daily basis, which was the goal from the start. That progress is a challenge to measure. I have to pay attention to the absence of pain. That may seem obvious but it isn’t. It’s easy to notice when you’re hurting. Noticing that a chronic pain has gradually and grudgingly faded is more difficult. But I realized after some recent moderately strenuous hikes that the pain I would normally have had, both during and after, wasn’t there. Or at least was so minimal that it was just a footnote.
These hikes are a far cry from what I used to do without much trouble. Regaining prowess at that level may not go as well. But this IS progress. Progress that’s so slow it’s nearly imperceptible. Over three years into this, I’m well beyond the obvious day-to-day or week-to-week improvements. I’m even beyond month-to-month gains. This is the long haul—that portion of physical recovery that takes months of consistent hard work to see minute gains. It’s the doldrums. It’s tough to keep going when it doesn’t seem like all of the time and effort is delivering results.
I’ve spent countless hours diligently doing my PT exercises at my appointments, at home, and on the road. I have a small arsenal of PT torture devices at home. I take my smaller, portable gear with me on every trip and cram in some time to get the work done. I’ve used concrete curbs on the street as makeshift platforms for some of the exercises I do. Sometimes while wearing full motorcycle gear. That’s the logistical part, though.
The mental part is powering through even when it seems like a waste of time. It’s powering through when I have to summon every ounce of discipline I possess to overcome a lack of desire. It’s powering through when anger surges about why I’m still doing this. It’s powering through when the exhausting realization washes over me yet again that I will have to spend extra energy and focus the rest of my life to keep Frankenleg mostly functional. Because I can feel the strength in my leg deteriorate in just a couple of days, if I don’t tend to it. The difference between my injured leg and my good leg is astounding. I can never let my guard down if I want to keep doing the things I love because those things require this fucking leg to work fairly well.
But if I can avoid additional surgery, doing the work is a no-brainer. And I know that I have some measure of control about how this goes. As much as the process sucks, I have a choice in how this plays out in my life.
I’m not tooting my own horn about this hard-earned success. I’m writing this to encourage anyone who’s facing a similar situation to keep going. Pure and simple, it sucks. No way around that. Time seems to stand still some days when you’re muddling through exercises for the millionth time. But you have to envision the long play. A really, really long play with no true finish line because you’re doing it to keep living the life you want more than anything else in the world. Do the work and make sure you enjoy the ride along the way.
I imagine most of you are familiar with the movie Thelma and Louise and its tale of two women finding their strength through a series of unexpected and escalating ordeals. In one of the most enduring scenes towards the end of the film, Geena Davis’ character, Thelma, says to Louise “I feel awake. Wide awake. I don’t ever remember feeling this awake. You know what I mean? Everything looks different. You feel like that too? Like you got something to look forward to?”
In the wake of the crash and other complicated life stuff that compounded the stress, the past two years have been more challenging than rewarding. It hasn’t all been miserable of course, but there’s been an underlying weariness and dullness even in the bright moments. I’ve had to dig deep into the depths of what fortitude I possess to manage all of it.
Throughout this time I continued to do the things I knew I loved even when they didn’t necessarily fill me with the same awe and excitement as before. Those things—riding motorcycles, hiking, traveling, exploring—still felt good. Pleasant. Nice. There was happiness in them. But muted.
In the last couple of months there’s been a shift. I feel like me again. I have genuine, deep delight in life once more—meeting new people, going new places, learning new things. I’m once again fully engaged in life with joy and amazement.
Mental gymnastics
From the beginning of my recovery process, I knew that being true to myself was crucial. In my head I knew I needed to anchor myself in what I loved before the crash. Emotionally though, that was an extraordinary challenge because pursuing those things didn’t always feel good or the challenges seemed physically overwhelming with my damaged body.
In all of this time I expended a lot of energy dancing between forcing myself to focus on the positive and allowing myself to feel all of the inevitable anger, frustration, and grief. Make no mistake about the deep and lasting impact trauma of any kind has on someone and the burden of dealing with it on top of the other tasks of life.
Holding on to what I love and giving myself a new start in Nevada.
That all-encompassing self-doubt had broad implications, including making it a struggle to keep this blog going and all of the writing, business, and social media that goes along with that. A lot of the time I just didn’t care about keeping any of it going. I knew I love doing this but mustering enough enthusiasm was exhausting. With sheer will power I had to develop almost a blind trust that at some point life would fall back into place. I convinced myself that if I simply kept showing up and participating as best as I could, life would work itself out.
There was no magic moment when that happened. Just enough fading of stressors, memories, and challenges. And enough time to put mental distance between myself and them. Enough time to figure out how to manage my body as it is now and still be able to enjoy doing the things I love. Enough time to come to terms with the pain and difficulty that are a daily part of my life now.
Some might file this under “Time heals all wounds.” I don’t. I’ve learned to hate that patronizing, dismissive cliche’. Time gives you the space to cope and weave bad experiences into the fabric. Maybe time even fades the memories a little. But I would in no way call it healing in the implied sense that people often use that phrase. They imply that the healing is erasure.
In this process, I also made a collection of choices that have helped me get to this point. The bulk were small to moderate decisions and re-prioritizing after asking myself questions like “Is this adding to my life?,” “I want _____; how do I achieve that?,” “What do I want more of? Less of?” Those little choices added up but there were big notable ones that provided the framework—getting back on the bike and moving to Nevada. Both were extraordinarily difficult and more worthwhile than I can articulate. I think it’s poetic that one represents holding on to a core value and the other giving myself a clean slate from which to rebuild.
The triumph of overcoming obstacles felt wonderful. But was always followed by dismay from the pain and exertion of the attempt.
And so I find myself happy and vibrant again. Awake. Aware. Confident. Unlike Thelma who was unfamiliar with that feeling, I knew it before. I loved that feeling and I wanted it back. Badly. One of the overriding sensations of rediscovering it is relief. Profound, extreme relief. I’ll confess that there was so much of this time I thought I’d never get here, that I’d never get myself back no matter how hard I worked at it. That I wouldn’t be able to move beyond simply getting by. That my greatest loss of this ordeal would be to never have that feeling again.
There were surges when I thought “This is great. I’m better.” Only to have that feeling fall away or get buried underneath a new round of challenges. Those waves felt good but the crash afterward continually undermined me. I felt like I couldn’t trust the positive surges. I knew I was getting there at the one-year mark but I began to fear there would be an upper limit. That I’d never fully be Val again.
Of those who have spent time with me in the last two years, most would probably say I seemed happy and myself. I was never gone, just incomplete. Allowing myself to enjoy the good moments wasn’t about hiding my struggle or being disingenuous. It was about letting good moments be good and not carrying all of the painful weight of the last two years on my sleeve. That’s too heavy a burden for myself and the people around me. There was certainly plenty of talk with my closest friends who helped me through this. With the larger audience much of time I was simply tired of talking about it.
Peace
Despite being ok, I still struggle with the effects of trauma. I always will. But it doesn’t run my life anymore. Given the longevity of this process and the head-spinning ups and downs I’ve hesitated to announce “I’m better!”
So why is today different? It just is. I can’t explain it other than it feels different. I feel light, free—in a way I haven’t in the last two years. I have the same sense of giddy excitement about doing the things I love that I used to. None of the events and struggles have been erased but in the deepest core of who I am I know I’ve made my peace with the last two years.
I’m back, friends.
I feel awake.
It finally feels truly, deeply good to be in the saddle again.
I don’t have a formula for you. I can only share my experience. I do know that mine has had three important pieces to the puzzle so far: logistical, physical, and emotional. And they’re all intimately connected.
For those of you who need a recap, the short version is that on January 25th, 2015, I was hit by a car while riding my motorcycle. The driver didn’t see me.
My left leg took a direct hit from the car, crushing it against my Bonneville. It left me with a shaft fracture in my femur and a shredded femoral artery. The injuries required a titanium rod and screws and a saphenous-femoral bypass to repair. There’s a laundry list of other injuries to go with it but “Frankenleg” has been the governing factor in my recovery.
Regaining your body…
I’ve come a long way in seven months. I’m not 100%. I’m learning to accept I never will be. But I will get as close as I can.
So much of returning to motorcycling is physical, obviously. There’s no two ways about it… the only way you get back to your life after major injuries to work hard. There’s no fast-forward or easy pass. Your body will never be the same, but you have to push for closing the gap as much as possible.
Sometimes I feel numb when I think of the countless hours with my physical therapist as well as working on my own. Through six weeks of non-weight-bearing frustration, learning to walk again, trying to rebuild strength and stamina. I’ve fought hard. I’ve cried my way through exercises and yoga more times than I truly care to admit. It hasn’t been pretty.
Having said that, the people involved in my recovery are fairly astonished at my progress. When I step back to look at my journey, I know what I’ve accomplished in the last seven months is remarkable given the extent of my injuries. That doesn’t stop me from wanting to be done working so hard to reclaim my life and being frustrated at not being further along. But the specter of living a half-life urges me onward.
The mental game…
Plowing through this kind of recovery is a roller coaster. I’ve had lots of good days. Ones that feel like it will all be ok someday soon.
Revisiting an unhappy place in order to put it behind me.
And lots of bad. Ones that leave me feeling defeated. Crushed. Days when clinging to tenacity seems a fool’s errand.
I’m not an expert on trauma and recovery. I’ve pieced this process together one day at a time. But as my fellow blogger, Jen Charrette, eloquently said… you have to keep showing up. At first, that’s all it is. Just showing up. Getting out of bed each day. You build from there.
I’ve learned a few other things along the way:
A support network is crucial. An army of friends, family, doctors, and therapists all play into your ability to keep moving forward. From the early days of not being able to care for myself through getting back on the bike, the support I’ve received has taken so many forms.
Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Tap into your tribe. The people who care about you want to help. And they might need your help one day. Then you can repay their generosity.
It’s ok to acknowledge it sucks. It’s ok to grieve. But don’t dwell in that place. If you’re struggling with it, get help. The sooner, the better.
Give it everything you have. The alternative is languishing in disappointment and what-ifs. Your life has changed but it isn’t over. Reclaim all you can.
Look for inspiration in other stories. Let other successes help calibrate what you can accomplish. Seeing what others have overcome is fantastic motivation.
Back on the bike…
It took five months for me to return to motorcycling. As much as I wanted it, there were a lot of obstacles to overcome. Building enough strength to handle a motorcycle was one step. Overcoming the mental barriers was another entirely.
The best advice I’ve read to date is from the fabulous Liz Jansen. Her tips on riding after a crash are spot on. They are wise words and an important reminder that this is not a simple or easy process even for an experienced rider.
I managed a solo ride on my second day back in the saddle.
When it came time to face riding again, the factors that kept running through my mind were:
I hadn’t ridden in five months.
I had new physical limitations and uncertainties. I was no where near 100%. I’m still not.
I had a brand-new, unfamiliar bike.
The last time I rode ended in a life-changing trauma.
So I broke it down into steps:
I rode pillion with a friend first. I was only responsible for holding on but it was the boost I needed to take the next steps and recapture the joy of riding.
I enlisted the help of an experienced rider to head out with me the first time. I ride solo much of the time but I knew that would be foolish under the circumstances. So my buddy John Cloonan joined me. I knew I was ready but I was also uncertain what would shake out once I got back on the throttle. Having John patiently riding behind me was a great comfort.
I returned to the MSF Campus for a Bike Bonding course. Just like when I was learning to ride, having focused time on a closed course with knowledgable instructors was priceless. And using one of their nimble little 300F bikes for practice instead of my mine reduced the stress of performing low-speed skills since that’s when you’re most likely to drop the bike. The pressure of worrying about damaging my new bike would have been a distraction from reforming my motorcycling skills.
More training was part of my strategy to regain my riding confidence.
To my surprise, my first ride with John went really well considering. My skills were not as abysmal as I expected them to be. Admittedly, my cornering was not fantastic. And it took a great deal of concentration to not be too jumpy when cars crossed my path. But I did it. What I simultaneously desired and feared had been conquered.
I was so stoked that I went out again the next day. Solo. I was feeling strong enough to ride through the dreaded intersection. I felt I needed to face the demon, so-to-speak.
It was oddly serene that day. Very little traffic. Clear skies. Hot and humid. Stifling compared to the crisp and cold day when I was there last. I glanced down at my instrument panel as I waited at the red light. It was 21 weeks to the day. Almost to the minute. And an eerily similar scenario to that fateful afternoon.
That almost got me. The events of previous last five months tried to come crashing down. But having a meltdown wasn’t an option in that moment. So I took a few deep breaths and eased the throttle open when the light turned green.
Moving forward… mostly.
Moving beyond trauma is a gradual process. Getting back to what you love is essential.
In spite of those early triumphs, this is not a linear process. I waver through confident rides and not-so-confident ones. And I’m still surprised by intense feelings.
Like when I returned to the intersection a few weeks later to take some photographs for another post. Having already ridden through, I thought I was good. But parked there, watching the traffic in a drizzling rain, a meltdown wasn’t avoidable. That time, everything did come crashing down on me.
There are hard fights to be won when it comes to getting back on the bike after a crash. They’re worth battling for somethring you love. I really can’t say it better than Liz Jansen.
If you truly want to ride, don’t let anything or anyone stop you. Not only do you deny yourself the pleasures of riding, that message of defeat carries with you into other areas of your life.
In the process of all this, I’ve had people tell me I’m fearless. Hardly. But I do refuse to let fear dictate my life. I didn’t have a choice about the crash. I do have a choice about reclaiming my life. And I refuse to let a stranger, who already irrevocably altered my life and took so much from me, take the joy of motorcycling as well.
The trip to Gibbs Gardens has become one of my favorite little rides to rebuild my skills. In the serenity of the Japanese Garden, I can assess what skills I need to work on during the ride home.
Now 24 weeks into my ordeal of being hit by a car, I’ve come to understand a lot about recovery and how it evolves. The challenges shift constantly. You reach a point when you covered most of the ground but closing the gap on what remains is a bigger challenge than everything you faced to that point. It’s the physical and shockingly painful version the 80/20 rule.
So today’s thoughts are from the downer “real life” department. Because this isn’t simply about a physical challenge. There are the emotional impacts of a major trauma to deal with as well. Feeling timid is the tip of the iceberg.
This process is excruciatingly slow. And exhausting. And time-consuming. And stressful. And very painful. Navigating the recovery process has been the center of my life for almost six months now. And it’s not nearly over.
If you were to meet me for the first time right now, you wouldn’t realize what I’ve been through in the last 6-ish months. Because I can walk now and function fairly normally, what I still struggle with is no longer obvious. But I’m not nearly the person I was. I simply can’t do what I used to be able to. This incident has impacted every single aspect of my life in avery big way. It’s so far-reaching, it’s often overwhelming.
There are those who see me progressing and realize the hard path it’s been. And there are those that see the progress and think I’m fine. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. I’m functional, but to close the remaining gap to get back to where I was sometimes seems unachievable. I often feel depleted from the effort to get this far; to go further seems too hard. It makes me want to say the progress I’ve made is good enough, but of course it isn’t. Yet I want to be done with recovery. Move on. But that’s not possible yet.
It’s easy to be gung-ho at the beginning of something. But as the days wear on and you see your progress slow to a crawl in spite of consistent effort, maintaining motivation becomes a challenge worthy of Sisyphus.
The truth is I’m tired. Tired of being strong. Tired of having to dig deeper and deeper each day to make progress. Tired of the hassles. I simply want my life back.
Much of the difficulty lies in knowing who and what I was before and how much of that was taken. That difficulty is compounded because this isn’t about growing through a challenge I chose for myself, it’s about clawing my way back to being myself due to a senseless act by another person.
There are so many who are cheering me on. It’s wonderful in so many ways. They’re celebrating my triumphs but, in all honesty, what may appear like successes don’t really feel like them to me. It just sucks. It doesn’t feel amazing to simply regain basic life skills or what you’d already achieved; to be forced re-accomplish something that was brutally taken from you.
I think people want to believe in the idea of becoming a better person through adversity. Maybe I’ll see it that way one day when I’m not stuck in it, using every resource I have to deal with it. But not now. Not yet.
And that’s where the emotional recovery lies. The journey to acceptance is a tumultuous one. Some days are better than others, just like in physical therapy.
The big picture here is that life doesn’t fit neatly into little “all or none” boxes. Ever.
As a blogger, I’m trying to balance being honest about what this experience has been with not being a total killjoy. But the truth is this is what has dominated and defined my life this year. To not share enough of this very real experience would be disingenuous. Sharing too much could prove tiresome. Where’s the tipping point? I don’t know.
I do know that the recovery process is long and awful in every aspect. There are no quick fixes. Time is essential. There is no one thing that makes it happen. It’s putting a lot of the little things together hoping they’ll eventually add up. And I hope that every day I get up and move forward helps fulfill my prediction that this will be a footnote in my life within a year, both physically and emotionally.
I’m now almost eight weeks into this ordeal and I’m certainly much improved but each day and week present new and different challenges. It’s been a grudging, gradual process to regain independence and mobility. Around two weeks I started to realize I’d be ok eventually. By four weeks I started to feel more like myself, like I was regaining my spirit. At six weeks it was time to start trying to walk again and I had more control of my progress.
Even though in the big picture there’s a clear progression, to me living it from day-to-day, it’s been tenuous and non-linear… fleeting moments that I wasn’t sure I could turn into anything sustainable. It has been difficult and frustratingly slow journey. To be broken down to your core, having to dig in and start over, and counting progress with miniscule victories is humbling. Trust me, the joy of finally being able to bathe yourself without help is exciting—but contrasted with why you had to be in that position in the first place is an emotional struggle.
That means focusing on the progress. Celebrating the exceptional moments even though the rule is still struggling with daily tasks—trusting that the balance will shift if I work hard enough, if I find how fierce I can be.
And so I leave you with this…
Because I need this. I ache for it. It is what I am and only I can get me back to it. And it’s going to take everything I have to reclaim it. I have to be fierce.
Now, the simplest of of daily tasks are exhausting and time-consuming. I have been labeled “home-bound” by my insurance company. For someone who’s unofficial motto is “Home is a four-letter word,” that is a terribly hard thing to hear. Everything I love to do is now not an option. No hiking. No motorcycle. No yoga. I go days without leaving my loft. That’s right… me. Because it’s that hard.
I still don’t have any idea when I’ll regain the first shred of normalcy in my life. It’s taken me awhile to grasp the severity of this, mainly because I know the potential for how much worse I could have ended up. Trying to reconcile the difficulty of my current position with gratitude for it not being worse is a awkward dance.
What I’m up against…
Medically, I’ve suffered a major trauma. That included an vein-to-artery bypass on my femoral artery and two transfusions. A rod and screws now permanently resides along the entire length of my femur. The broken fibula looks to be healing without further intervention other than immobilization. I have a minor concussion that leaves my head spinning much of the day. My left leg is a macabre train track of nearly three-feet worth of incisions and staples. The feeling has largely returned to my foot but not totally. The extent of possible permanent nerve damage isn’t known yet and probably won’t be for some time.
And even though there doesn’t appear to be new damage to last year’s hand injury, it’s very sore, stiff, and weak after being bruised and battered in the crash. I do have a minor fracture in the tip of that same thumb so I get numbness there from time-to-time.
Watching what my body is going through to try to heal from all of this is astounding. There’s the “Wow, the human body is amazing!” aspect as well as the flip-side that really all I can do is rest because my body is using absolutely every resource it has in order to heal. And it’s getting there. I’m certainly surpassing my doctor’s expectations but, even so, there’s a certain amount of time this takes. I have four more weeks of non-weight-bearing on the leg and another six weeks beyond that of rehab and therapy in order to get to a point where I’ll be able to get back on the trails.
I’ve been debating how detailed to go with this but I want to put a real face on this experience so I have to be brutally honest about what these last two-and-a-half weeks have been like.
The ugly logistical tidbits…
I’ve struggled to organize this into a coherent narrative so instead I’ve compiled a snapshot of the things I face now:
My odd little world where I have to wear two different shoes to accommodate my foot brace.
My daily life at home largely consists of moving from the bed to the living room. And back. Because that’s basically all I can manage from both an energy-level and pain standpoint. I was hoping I’d be a little further along by now but hobbling on crutches or a walker is not only exhausting, it aggravates my hand.
Showers are a nearly hour-long ordeal so I’m partaking sparingly. Again, an exhausting exercise of trying to manipulate once-simple tasks of undressing, bathing, re-bandaging wounds, etc. all without the benefit of being able to stand or even bend my swollen, misshapen leg.
Sleep is fitful and sporadic due to constant discomfort and the need to maintain leg elevation. Every muscle in my body is aching and tense from lop-sided maneuvering. There’s just no way to get comfortable. I can only sleep for 30-45 minutes at a time.
Because of the vascular surgery, I have to give myself an injection of blood thinners every day.
What limited energy I have is reserved for managing the detritus of this mess. Navigating the legal, financial, and medical implications is nearly all-consuming.
I’m only functioning at a very basic level. Thanks to an army of remarkable people, I’m managing to stay fed, somewhat bathed, and get to the multitude of doctor’s appointments that now run my life.
Obviously I can’t drive or run even the most basic of errands. It’s taking a team of people to get the boys to and from their classes and me to appointments.
Much of my day consists of deciding how badly I want things like that next cup of coffee or a bathroom break because the energy needed to do those things is daunting.
You’d think because I’m largely sedentary, I have a lot of free time to catch up on computer-based things. Not so. Aside from the constant phone calls and hassles of managing this situation, basic tasks take about four times as long, and even sitting up for any length of time is exhausting. My head is in a fog from sleep-deprivation and the concussion.
The emotional strain…
When every little detail of your life is a struggle, it takes its toll. Throw in the uncertainty of the financial implications of this and the inability to work and it quickly ramps up to a high-stress situation… which is exactly what your body doesn’t need to heal.
A little dose of happiness visiting Marlo.
Two-and-a-half weeks doesn’t seem like a large chunk most of the time. This has been an eternity. And this is just the beginning. Even though I know I’ll get better, I don’t really know how whole I’ll be in the end.
It’s hard to keep the thoughts at bay… all the things I had planned for this year that are now cancelled or uncertain. Many trips for February and March simply had to be scrapped. Later spring trips are all dependent upon how well physical therapy proceeds. And looking further into the year, even summer and fall plan are in limbo as well as I watch and wait to see how this goes. From a work standpoint, I can’t pick up freelance gigs because I have no idea when I’ll be able to deliver. My best guess is that this is a six-month setback.
I’m trying not to dwell on that… what’s been taken from me. I have to accept where I am now, regroup, and rebuild. But waves of frustration are inevitable, especially when those plans are your work as well as your life. I’m wary of acceptance becoming resignation. It’s a slippery slope. Fortunately I have a lot of people on my team watching out for me and who I know will give me a kick in the ass if needed.
I started this recovery project with the mindset that I will be ok. And certainly everyone who knows me has no doubts. But that’s that danger of strength rearing it’s head again, because it’s not a foregone conclusion that I will get back to where I was. As you can probably guess, I have a lot of ups and downs… the times where I dig in and fight fiercely and the times where it’s all so overwhelming.
Why I hope you’ll take this to heart…
I detail all of this because I want to humanize this experience. I’m just me but I’m also a mom, a friend, a sister, a daughter… I hope you’ll see I represent what can happen to any of us or our loved ones at any time and how we conduct ourselves when we get behind the wheel counts. We have each other’s lives in our hands when we’re out in the world and it’s amazingly easy how quickly we can alter the course of each other’s lives.
And yes, I’m lucky to be alive. We’re all lucky to be alive. We all face the possibility of a tragic encounter every single day. Yes, I’m grateful to still be here. But I’m not going to apologize for being on a motorcycle even though so many people want to blame that. I took every precaution aside from bubble-wrapping my life. When it comes to auto vs. motorcycle, bicycle, or pedestrian, the car will always win, regardless of fault. But that doesn’t mean we should not walk or ride. It means we as drivers need to take more care and recognize cars do not own the road. It must be shared.
Where to go from here…
I’ve got a long road ahead of me and really my goal for the next several months is to not fade away or let this define my future. After two weeks of spinning out of control, I hope some normalcy returns and I continue to make gains in tackling basic survival. It’s one thing to be ill for a couple of days but when you’re sidelined for months, the task of maintaining your stamina for recovery requires patience and perseverance. I hope I have what it takes. I hope in a year this will be a footnote in my life.
Finding happiness…
Since I’m deprived of the things I do to be happy, I’ve had to discover new ways to keep myself motivated and positive.
The Disapproving Beagle was entirely put out that I repurposed his tennis balls. And his antics were a much-needed laugh.
I love seeing pictures my friends out adventuring. The irreverent teasing of my friends reminds me I am loved. Even those silly cute animal videos on Facebook are a source of positive energy. And as cheesy as it is, reading the stories of people who have overcome far more than I face remind me this is a temporary and largely recoverable situation, even though in the midst of it, it often seems insurmountable.
The overwhelming support that has poured out from this reminds me I’m not alone. I don’t know where I would be without the emotional and logistical support I’ve received. In the end, that is the well-spring of happiness that will carry me through.
When I look at the difficulty I face being confined and dependent, I have to wonder if it’s harder for adventurous types to be completely down-for-the-count. I think it might be. Because for us, it’s not just losing a little part of your life, it’s losing nearly everything you love to do and everything you are as a person. Fortunately for me it’s temporary. But weathering the recovery is no small task.
Cheers, friends. Live large and adventure on.
And now for your moment of green…
Like my millipede friend here, I feel like I’ve had to curl up in a little ball until the threat has passed… I feel ya, buddy.
