Six Months

Six months.

That’s how long it’s been that I’ve been figuring out how to deal with a spinal cord injury. And six months feels like a milestone, for a few different reasons.

Here’s why. Last Sunday I went back to work. There didn’t ever seem to be a question about whether I’d be able to work again - it was mostly that we didn’t know when. The doctors say, and the research seems to point to, the reality is that the first six months after a spinal cord injury are the most important for recovery. So we decided a long time ago that I’d focus almost exclusively on recovery for the first six months. Then, a few weeks ago, it started to feel like I’d recovered enough mentally and physically to be able to pay attention to both physical recovery and starting to work again.

Here’s why. We’ve gotten mostly moved into our new house. No, the boxes aren’t all unpacked. No, the garage and basement storage spaces aren’t quite organized the way they ought to be. No, we don’t have every piece of furniture exactly where it should be. Yes, we just recently got some of the art hung on the walls. Over the month or so since we moved in, this space has started feeling more and more like home.

Here’s why. Last Saturday I participated in an organized bike ride event again. It was a fundraiser for the hospital where I did the first five weeks of post-ICU rehab. During the ride, another group of cyclists passed the group I was with. I snuck out of our group and held on the back of the other group for a few minutes. Without knowing it, that group helped me feel more like myself.

Here’s why. More than all the rest. I’ve been ridiculously lucky to have been surrounded by a community of people who picked me up and carried me when I was most broken.

The community of people, some of whom I don’t have any idea who they are, stepped up by giving money to help us be able to pay bills while I was on disability leave from work.

The community at the gym where I used to work out stepped up by carrying heavy things. And when I was ready, buying me beer and whiskey. And by recognizing the struggle someone who likes to be active might have with reduced mobility.

The community at the church where I’m the pastor stepped up by praying. Continually. Relentlessly. And by sending handmade cards and posters and get-well thoughts that I could use to decorate my hospital room and my heart.

And most significantly for me, my family carried me when I was broken. The children in my life treated me like normal, but a little more gently. My parents showed up at the hospital, and at the other hospital, and in our tiny apartment, and as chauffeur, and in continual messages of support (including my dad always waving at me, but with just one finger).

More than anyone else, my wife isn’t giving up on me. She promised me in the ICU that we were gonna get figure this all out together, no matter what. And we’re figuring it out.

I’ve talked a lot in the past about the importance of community, and about the truth that it’s ok for people who are in need to rely on those who love them. I said that from a purely theoretical and theological perspective. In the past six months I’ve experienced that truth - the truth that it’s better to live this life as part of a community than to be isolated.


$0.02

I Place My Foot Carefully: A Reflection on Moving

“I place my foot carefully

            deliberately

            out of necessity

      so that my progress is

            smooth

      unhindered by a misstep

            a stumble

using my hands well

      is critical

      they’re instrumental

            in maintaining good balance

      and help facilitate

            forward progress

it takes concentration

      my body knows

            physically

      when my mind wanders

      then brings all of me back

            to focus

            on the next step

when it all works together

      I get where I’m going

            and revel in

      success achieved”

was written about climbing Class 3 ridges in Colorado’s high country; also applies to recent excursions along city sidewalks.

Lamenting and Rejoicing: Some Thoughts on Goals

“What are your goals for fitness if you join this gym?” the coach/owner asked me when I applied for membership.

“I want to be able to do whatever I want, whenever I want to” was my reply. (It was only later on that I added “I want to be able to get off the toilet when I’m 90” to the list of goals.)

For a while I felt like I’d accomplished that goal (the first one – I’m not 90 yet). I wasn’t the fittest; I wasn’t the fastest; I wasn’t the strongest. But there was a good chunk of time when I felt like there wasn’t much I wouldn’t have been able to get up and go to at a moment’s notice.

That all changed about four months ago. Today there are a bunch of chairs that I can’t stand up from without hoisting myself with my arms. Today I can’t walk without limping; I can’t run; and if I’m on the floor, standing up takes a lot of effort and concentration (and isn’t always a successful endeavour on the first attempt).

My current physical condition feels like a problem. Now, I’ve been known to say that the solution to every problem is to do more squats. Not strong enough? Do more squats. Bad day at work? More squats. Failing classes in school? More squats. Just got dumped by your boyfriend or girlfriend? Squats.

Today, though, I can’t do a single squat.

Don’t get me wrong – there’s a lot that I am able to do that I couldn’t do before. Three months ago I spent most of my time in a wheelchair. I rejoice in the physical capabilities I’ve recovered.

At the same time, though, one of the things that gets me more than most of the rest is that I used to be able to participate in the activities; now I find myself a bystander, watching from here what’s happening over there.

My fitness goals are still the same as before. And so, I lament what I haven’t recovered. Yet.

Continuing Recovery

I came away from my skiing accident broken. The knee that was injured (ACL and MCL) is part of the same leg that has been most significantly affected by the Spinal Cord Injury. It really didn’t work at all for at least a couple days. And when I started to be able to use it again, regaining muscular control was complicated by the fact that the ligaments weren’t doing what they were supposed to.

In addition to that leg hardly working at all, I’d lost most of my cardiovascular fitness while I was laying in the ICU for ten days – so much so that when I started PT, five minutes of balancing on my knees wore me out enough that I needed a breather. And while I made huge gains during PT, I spent most of the next five weeks in a wheelchair.

So when the inpatient portion of post-accident rehab was done, I had virtually no stamina. When I was discharged and able to be home again, every couple hours I’d have to stop what I was doing so I could lay down for a while. And when I wasn’t resting, I really wasn’t doing very much of anything except being more upright than horizontal.

It felt like a blow to my identity to need rest after a couple hours of simply existing in the world. I’ve never been the fittest guy around, but for years I’ve been able to spend a whole day going nonstop without really taking a break. Further, there are numerous times when I’ve strung together seven days like that in a row.

The physical recovery I longed for was that the mostly-broken leg would work again, and that I could regain most of the stamina that I’d lost.

Finally, over the past week or so, I’ve felt a beautiful confluence of healing. Our trip to California forced me to not stop for almost the whole day for a few days in a row ... which served to increase my stamina. And just this past week, one of the muscles that hasn’t worked for months finally started engaging again ... which allows my whole body to work more like it’s supposed to.

Add to that the fact that I’ve recently been able to start going on longer bike rides – bike rides on an actual bike, instead of that silly spin bike in the gym. It’s a good thing, because I’m registered for a 50k bike ride in a couple months.

The bike ride is a fundraiser for Craig Hospital. Craig is a specialty hospital which treats spinal cord injury and brain injury patients. I was inpatient there for five weeks, and continue to do Physical Therapy there as an outpatient. The staff there does phenomenal work. I’d encourage you to support Craig by making a contribution through my Pedal 4 Possible fundraising page

I’m not quite ready to take on the course I’ve registered for. Lucky for me I have time to build enough stamina between now and then.

On A Bike Again

I got on a bike again.

It was awkward, and slow, and tough to start & stop, and scary. I can only manage about 60% of the speed I once was able to maintain, and have stamina for maybe 20% of the distance.

But I can ride a bike again.

A year ago, I started figuring out how to spend more time riding than I had before. Racing a road bicycle, riding more challenging mountain bike trails, plotting bikepacking trips through remote and beautiful places, learning how to ride and race on a velodrome, and seeing how quickly (and how slowly) I could make my two-wheeled commute.

A day ago, I struggled at the end of an easy six mile ride that we had taken a 20 minute break in the middle of.

But I was on a bike again.

One day, in a flurry of broken bones up and down my back, all the planning and preparation and fitnessing drifted away like a dandelion puff ball on the current of a kid’s breath, and the bikes gathered dust for a while. Since then, I’ve figured out that I can lash a crutch to my bike so I’m able to walk when I get where I’m going. And it’s joyous to be able to move in a way that I’ve loved since before the age of 10, when I was skidding coaster brakes on gravel roads.

I’m getting back on bikes again.

Ski Accident Recovery: Out of the Torso and Neck Braces

Good news today. The neurosurgeon (who didn’t do surgery on me) told me today that the fractures in my spine are healed enough to not need the braces any more.

Halleluia!

I’ve been counting down the days for a couple weeks and counting down the hours for four days, waiting for the moment when I’d be free of those constraints. And I’ve been dreaming and worrying that I’d be sitting in the exam room and the doctor would tell me that I wasn’t healed enough to get rid of them.

Fortunately for me, we got good news today.

And then I experienced myself getting really slow and tentative, because this is all so new.

See, I’ve been in that turtle shell for so long that I’ve become somewhat dependent on it. All the muscles underneath the brace, which I haven't really used for months, have weakened to the point that I expect I’ll be exhausted by simply sitting up in a chair. And even though it was a pain to put on, take off, and exist in, I feel really vulnerable without the protection it provided, like I'm in danger of breaking.

But it’s time, and I’m thankful for being able to take the next step in this recovery that I’ve been working on for a few months. Right now, though, after being free of the braces for less than three hours, I think I’m gonna go take a nap.

Ski Accident Recovery: Reflections on getting off the toilet

I used to tell people that I did my best to stay fit because I want to be able to get off of the toilet when I’m 90 years old. Thing is, today, at age 48, I have trouble standing up from the toilet without assistance.

Yep. I spent years riding bikes and running and swimming and hiking and climbing and playing volleyball & basketball – and I spent most of my 40s lifting and gymnasticsing and HIITing so I could be in good shape. Today, however, I walk slowly and with a limp. And I haven’t been this weak since … maybe, ever.

It feels unfair, that after the work I did to gain fitness, it’s gone in a moment. One day I had the physical capacity to do almost anything I wanted to do. The next day I didn’t get out of the ICU bed. And when I did get up days later, I couldn’t stand up even with help from four people.

I don’t expect this to be my permanent reality. I’m stronger today than I was at the end of March. I’m stronger today than I was in early May when I was released from the hospital. I’m probably stronger today than I was last week. In the ‘clouds and silver lining’ category, that makes me happy.

So, I suppose my current project is similar to my project before the accident – get stronger, get fitter, so that I have an easier time getting off the toilet at 90 than I do at 48.

One Month Ago, One Week From Now

So, I'm ready. One month ago today (Monday), I was released from being an inpatient at Craig Hospital. And one week from today, hopefully my reality will change substantially. I'm ready.

See, here's what I'm dealing with. In mid March I experienced an accident while skiing, which caused damage to my knee and shoulder (sprains), to my spinal column (broken vertebrae), to my spinal cord (damage to nerves inside the vertebrae), and to my brain (concussion). Since then, I've been working through what feels like a really slow process of healing from those injuries.

But Monday is a big day. We'll be going to see the surgeon (who didn't do surgery on me) - the surgeon who first saw me because of the broken vertebrae - the surgeon who directed me to wear a torso brace whenever I'm not in bed, and a neck brace 100% of the time. Our hope is that the x-rays we get later this week will show that there's enough healing of the fractures that these braces will no longer be necessary.

Of course, the paranoia and worry that almost overwhelm me every night say that there'll be some problem that will require immediate surgery (on Monday afternoon), which will lead to seven more months of bracing. My rational mind does its best to squash those ideas, but they keep popping up especially when I'm laying in bed not quite drifting off to sleep.

Hopefully, soon I'll finally be allowed to go without those braces. Which will feel ridiculously great, and probably exhausting at the same time, since I'll hafta start using those torso muscles that've been on break for months. But I'll take exhausted, since it'll mean that I can move around more freely.

Here's hoping for good news on Monday - because I'm ready to start moving a little more than I've been able to.

It's Gonna Be a While - Reflections on Wishing Recovery was More Complete Already

I’m tired of not feeling right. I’m tired of not feeling like I feel like I should. It doesn’t get to me every day, but the list of ways I obviously don’t feel quite right gets to me once in a while.

The most frustrating part is that my muscles don’t work the way they’re supposed to – don’t work the way they used to. Which means that:
* I get up really slowly from chairs
* It’s a long and involved processes for me to get out of bed
* My gait is really slow, awkward, I walk with a significant limp
and I either have to use crutches or I weave all over the place

Add that to the neck and torso braces (which together prevent me from bending above the waist) that I’ll be wearing for at least a couple more weeks, and I’m feeling pretty physically incompetent.

Beyond that, my brain (which was never the sharpest or quickest), isn’t quite keeping up the way it should. Plus, unrelated to the injury from a couple months ago, I’m having my glasses prescription updated ... which means that I get to get used to wearing glasses.

I'm not feeling right, not feeling like I want to. I'm not moving around like I'd like to, and I’ve started resigning myself to the truth that I may not ever again be able to some of the things I used to love doing.

Yes, I'm still working at recovery - doing the stretching and strength training and muscular electro-stimulation that I'm supposed to - but running and jumping, cycling and skiing, climbing and backpacking, all are impossible right now, and it seems like a stretch that I'll ever get back to those things.

There are times that I believe fully and completely that after recovery I'll be back to being able to do 100% of what I used to do.

There are times when I dream that everything goes to hell and that everything I've gained back over the past couple months was a fluke - that I'll lose all the progress from the past couple months and will end up needing to use a breath-powered wheelchair to get around.

And there are times when what feels more true than the rest is that I've permanently lost some of the physical capabilities I once had.

I feel like everything's going to hell very rarely; I feel like everything'll be completely back to what was normal a little more often; most of the time, though, I just wish that I felt right again.

I'm tired of not feeling right, and I long for the day when what today doesn't feel right will all of a sudden be normal. I think it's gonna be a while.

I Don't Feel At Home In My Own Body

I don’t feel at home in my own body.

If you’ve been following along, you know that I experienced an accident while skiing. You know that I spent almost seven weeks in the hospital recovering from my injuries and rehabilitating my body.

I’m getting around better now that I was six weeks ago ... better, even, than I was when I was discharged. But I’m still nowhere close to moving the way I did before the injury. Perhaps I’ll never make it back to that standard. Perhaps I’ll never get close to the standard, and my foot will always drag along the ground. I hope it doesn’t – I hope I get close to moving the way I did before. But even though I’ve figured out how to navigate current reality (slowly, carefully, and with a great deal of thought and attention paid to every single step), I long to be able to move the way I did before.

I don’t feel at home in my own body.

In addition to the loss and alteration of movement, part of this injury is that I’ve experienced a loss and alteration of sensation. Walking outside on a cool and snowy May day in Colorado, I notice that while one leg is cold, the other feels warm. Walking barefoot on the bathroom floor, one foot feels like the floor is heated while the other notices that the tile is cool to the touch. Stretching my hamstrings (which I know have been tight since like 1974), one feels the stretch while the other gets to a point where it just doesn’t move any more. It’s disorienting, and a little confusing.

I don’t feel at home in my own body.

It feels a little like I’m staying for the holidays at a relative’s house. The surroundings are sort of familiar, but not really home. And it feels like as soon as whatever’s happening is finished, I’ll be back in my own home.

Except I won’t. This is my residence from now on. This is how I exist from now on. Disorientated in my own body. It’s obviously not my first choice. But if I’m optimistic, I’ve got a few decades to get used to it. But the truth is still obvious almost every time I move around.

I don’t feel at home in my own body.

Home Today

Today’s the day. Today’s the day they told me to go. I had lived in the same room for just over five weeks; today’s the day I walked from that to my car, and my love drove us to our home.

In the hospital, I found myself moving quickly up and down the halls. The wheelchair rolled quickly down the smooth hallway. And when I walked, I made better time than most people who were living in the rooms near mine.

Today, though, I move back out into the not-hospital world - where I notice that as comparatively quickly as I locomoted in the hospital, I’m slow compared to most people. I’m slow, and my gait is stilted and shuffling.

Now I sit in the comfort of our home, recognizing that the hospital is safer and easier to navigate than an apartment complex or a grocery store or the sidewalk next to a parking lot. I sit here, recognizing that I’ll be slow and clumsy for a while.

And today - the day I’m released from the hospital, the day I come home - today, I realize again that it will be challenging to make my way through this world. And embedded within that realization, I begin to understand the truth that I'm just the same as every single other person. 

One Week

One week

One week from today
I’ll be done here

One week from today
I’ll sleep in my own bed
in a place I can call home

but today
today, while I’m still in a place
where help is just a push of a button away
where someone is paid
to tend to my needs
and assist with my deficiencies
today, while I’m still in this place
I feel safe

Weeks ago,
my physical situation was dire
today I’ve improved
and seem to be improving every day
over the next months
I’ll continue to work for the same

but in this moment,
releasing me one week from today
from the safety of hospital confines
to a home, beautiful though it may be
feels abrupt

today, I yearn to be at home
because I long to embrace regular life
out of a hospital
alongside the beautiful people
who are creating a family with me
yet still it frightens me to think of leaving
the security of this place

but today, and for the next week
fear and excitement exist alongside one another

Injury Recovery: Reflections About Rehabilitation on Easter Sunday

Once, when I was a teenager, my friend invited me to go camping with him and his family for the weekend. It was their tradition on this particular weekend to go camping, but their tradition was in direct conflict with my family tradition. See, it was Easter weekend. My family could always be found in church for Easter, and for the Triduum as well. But that one year, I was so psyched that my friend had invited me that I had to go camping.

It was a really fun weekend of camping, and I’m glad I went. But after the weekend, I realized that I’d missed the whole Good Friday and Easter drama – I hadn’t gotten to recognize death and celebrate life.

That was the first year I didn’t celebrate the Triduum and Easter in church. This year, 2019, is the second. This time, instead of staying at a campground by the river, I’m staying in a hospital where I’m focusing on physical rehabilitation in the wake of a spinal cord injury.

Honestly, it’s hard to wrap my mind around my current reality. I mean, so far my experience has been that every time I’ve been sick or injured, I have the capacity to recover fully and completely from my injury.

But this time, that might not be possible. Fully recovered this time around might mean I will forever walk with a limp … or with crutches … or that I won’t have the capacity to walk very much at all. I couldn’t have admitted that even to myself three weeks ago. But this week I’m experiencing some of that death that I talked about on Ash Wednesday. Not death which means life has ended, but death in the sense that a person experiences the loss of something significant. In my case, at this moment, it would be the potential permanent loss of mobility and capability.

This all goes through my head and my heart despite the encouragement that I get from people around me. My beloved and my parents echo the therapists and nurses and doctors and other folks here at the hospital where I’ve spent the past three weeks in telling me that I’m making significant progress. But all I really see is what I can’t do any more.

For the past almost five weeks since my accident, I’ve been almost entirely confined to hospitals. Thankfully. They’ve been safe places for healing and growth. Soon, though, in a couple weeks, I’ll be released from inpatient care, and will move in with my beloved and three small children.

It’s frightening, to consider moving from the safety of the hospital to the relative wild of the regular world, especially when I don’t get around as fluidly as I once did. It’s scary to not know how things will go.

I know I should recognize the gift of new life being presented to me on Easter Sunday. But Easter’s supposed to be filled with joy – and I feel way more anxious than joyous. The hospital is safe. I can do what I’m comfortable doing. And for those things that I need (or want) help with, assistance is readily available. Outside of the hospital, I’m on my own.

Except I’m not. I’m not venturing out of here by myself. There are people who love me who are willing to use some of their own time and energy and resources to make sure I’m safe; people who are willing to make sure I’m taken care of, that I have what I need; people who are willing to invest enough in me so that I can experience the freedom and joy that are beyond the anxiety and trepidation which accompany virtually every gift of resurrection.

Smaller world: Reflections after a ski accident

My world has gotten
considerably
notably
remarkably
smaller
over the past couple of weeks

That same world, which was expansive before
has shrunk considerably in the past month
from looking out the window of my car
or across the front range
I looked to the wilder places
at peaks and valleys to explore
at vistas to take in from the back of a bicycle

my view shrunk
to my love, and the handful of people who are closest to me
to what I could see looking up from an ICU bed
my view shrunk
to a small slice of foothills and building
outside the hospital window
to a couple of nurses at a time,
who made sure I wouldn’t die that day
my view shrunk
to swallowing two pills
and eating one small bowl of Jello

Early one afternoon,
a beautiful day of skiing
turned surprisingly and swiftly (and violently?)
into the beginning of a personal and communal struggle

Weeks later,
I roll around with predictions rattling in my head
that cerebral electrical connections
will reestablish communication
and sinews atrophied by weeks of disuse
will be strengthened by moving again
though in very deliberate and intentional ways
even while I roll around, also,
with the idea that I’ll never stop sitting and rolling

Ash Wednesday Reflection

This is the outline of the sermon I shared today, Ash Wednesday. As one might expect, this outline does not contain exactly the words that were spoken, but it's pretty close.

***   ***   ***

So, we’ve come to this time of the church year once again
when we’re invited to remember our mortality

Some of you may remember, or know,
that I enjoy Instagram
that photo-sharing social medium
but I use Instagram not so much as a social media platform
not so much to connect with friends
instead, I use it to see beauty
I follow people who post photo journalism
remarkable poetry
and especially, people who post beautiful photos of things outside

so, I follow people who are much better skiers, mountaineers, cyclists, and poets
than I am or ever will be

One of these people I follow, Amanda Batty,
posted something yesterday
that gets to the heart of the message of Ash Wednesday
this idea that you are dust, and you shall return to dust

the deal is, Amanda Batty is a mountain bike racer
and a little over seven months ago, she crashed really hard
and as I understand it, had to have her foot reconstructed
she’s only just in the past week or so gotten back on a bike

she wrote the following (which I’ve edited for content and for language)


***
I hate feeling vulnerable. I always have. I hate feeling out of control and I hate feeling slow.
I hate feeling broken and less than 100% capable and strong, and it makes me mad
because I still have this absurd mental and emotional attachment to being
superhuman,
to being unbreakable ... To being immortal
[It’s hard to] realize that I’m not exceptional or special or different —
just like everyone else, I too break and scar and will eventually die
[someone told her] “You’re quick to be defensive
because you think people see what you aren’t anymore.”
***


here’s the thing
Amanda Batty realized the thing that's true about each one of us
we live an embodied life
life in a body that's beautiful, and resilient, and also fragile

we are created from the dust of the earth
molded and shaped by our creator
who looks at us and proclaims us good

but still, as many of you know, sometimes we break
and need to take time to heal
sometimes it seems like different parts wear out
(many of you know, it’s happening to me … I’m learning how to need to wear glasses)
sometimes we experience betrayal through our bodies
and we realize that what we had once been able to do
we likely won’t ever again

and make no mistake
these betrayals that we experience in our bodies
they’re different from physical death only in degree
the few dozen sprained ankles I endured
while not crippling, still I experienced a little death
because I thought I was kept from fullness of life
the learning how to remember to bring glasses along
while not catastrophic, still I experience a little death
because I can’t quite see like I once did

but it’s not just our physicality
also, we experience death in the emotional and psychological and spiritual aspects of our life
consider when someone beloved to you is sick or injured
that’s a little death you experience, even as your beloved does as well

whether it’s a stroke or a scratch
a heartbreak or a bad haircut
death, in varying degrees, surrounds us

and then, after all the little deaths
eventually, someday, we’ll just die
our bodies will quit working
it’s humbling
realizing that though we are created good by our God
still we’re not invincible, we’re not immortal
we will die
every single one of us
you are dust, and to dust you shall return

yet, though we shall indeed die,
the promise Christ embodies for us
is the promise that death does not have the final word
that Christ entered into our life and our death,
and has defeated any power death has over us

Oh, death, where is your sting?
Oh, grave, where is your victory? Paul writes

so we begin this season of Lent
acknowledging our mortality
anticipating the promise that we’ll celebrate as the church at Easter
that on the other side of death, God promises us new life

In the name of Christ our Savior. Amen.