I'm Out of Shape

I went for a bike ride a couple days ago, which is not necessarily an unusual event. That day, though, I was training for a fundraiser ride (raising money for MS research) that I’m doing in a couple weeks. By the end of the ride, I was way more worn out than I used to ever by after a bike ride. I ended up being almost completely useless for the rest of the day.

Here’s the thing. A couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have flinched if someone invited me at 6:00 am to go on a 100 mile bike ride starting at 7:00 am. And I would have been able to function fairly well after that ride. I’m starting to realize that I’m not currently in good enough shape to do that kinda thing. 

It’s humbling to realize that I’m not as capable physically as I was a couple years ago (which feels really recent). But then my social media feed reminded me that it was almost exactly two years ago to the day that I went on my first post-accident bike ride. So maybe I should cut myself a little slack?

The truth is that I regularly feel stuck between thinking I should already be in better shape and more capable than I am, and recognizing that there’s probably nothing wrong with the continued recovery process taking a little longer than I want it to. 

Of course, that doesn’t help me get in shape any more quickly; and it doesn’t push the date of the ride any further into the future. 

The getting in shape is for me to do. If you’d like to help, you’re welcome to make a contribution to the fundraising effort. 

I Fell Down the Stairs

I fell down the stairs the other day. It was only a couple stairs, at the bottom of the staircase. It was a slow fall, and I knew it was happening. I never felt like I was in danger of injury from that fall. 

But still, I fell. And I couldn’t stop myself. It was scary, because in that moment I had no control over whether I would stop falling.

I tripped and fell again a few days later. I was stepping over something. First, I stepped over with the leg that doesn’t work like it should any more. No problem. Then the other leg followed. But since I wasn’t concentrating enough, that toe caught on the obstacle. 

And so I fell. And I couldn’t stop myself. And this time I ripped my jeans. 

Two years ago, I wouldn’t have fallen either time. When I slipped on the stairs, I would have just landed on the next step down and regained my balance. A few days later, I would have just hopped on the one leg when the other toe got caught. 

But the muscles don’t work right any more. Actually, that’s not quite right. It feels more like the electricity doesn’t work right any more - like there’s a short in my neurological system, and the signal isn’t getting to where it ought to be quickly enough. 

A few people have asked if I’m fully recovered from my injury. My common response is that I’ll never be fully recovered - that this injury will be affecting me for the rest of my life. Those words have been coming out of my mouth, but I keep on not believing them. Somewhere in my own being, I seem to expect that I’ll keep on getting better, and that one day I’ll be fully recovered. 

And then I fall down the stairs. Or I trip on the ground. Or I have use my hand to lift my leg into the car. Or I fall down while I’m putting my pants on. Or I trip and fall going up the stairs (which isn’t as potentially catastrophic as falling down the stairs). 

So, here’s my conundrum. I could accept my current physical capabilities as they are - and admittedly, I’m much more physically capable than I might have been after the injury I experienced. Or instead, I could keep trying to increase my recovery. But that means I’ll have to keep on trying to push my current limits and risk falling down the stairs again.

Eighteen Months: Thoughts on Recovery So Far

It’s been 18 months. Eighteen months ago today I drove up the mountain to spend the morning skiing. They tell me that I ended up riding down from the mountain in a helicopter that headed straight to the hospital emergency room.

It didn’t take too long for the doctors to figure out that I’d broken a few vertebrae. It took a couple weeks for the doctors to start talking with any sort of certainty about the extent of my spinal cord injury. Even then they were reluctant to say much definitively or to make prognoses.

Within a couple weeks, I was told that the extent of my injury officially put me in the category “quadriplegic” … which confused me (and I’ll never use that term to describe myself) because even by then I’d recovered probably 80% of the movement in my one hand, and the other never did seem to be affected.

About the same time I received this information, I was also told what a general timeline for recovery might be. In short what I heard was that the first six months were critical – that I should work as diligently as possible in those first six months in order to realize the greatest gains.

What I heard next was that while gains might not be quite so obvious, that I might expect to continue seeing improvement for as long as 18 months.

I’m thankful that the past eighteen months have proven that prediction right. Early on, the gains were obvious to me and to everyone who watched me move around. Recently, though, the improvements are much more subtle – probably not noticeable by most people, but enough for me to know that I move a little better today than I did a month ago.

One thing I don’t remember anyone saying when they talked about a recovery timeline was that I should expect after eighteen months. Will my recovery and improvements stagnate? Now that it’s been eighteen months, should I not expect any more improvements?  

It’s been eighteen months. I feel lucky that I’ve regained as much mobility as I have. I’m grateful that I can move around mostly normally.

It’s been eighteen months, and I get frustrated that I can’t move around as smoothly as I used to could. Just this morning, I almost yelled and threw things when I stubbed my toe on the (smooth, even, predictable) floor, because that leg doesn’t work right any more.

It’s been eighteen months. I don’t know the future, so there’s no way for me to know today whether I’ll continue making mobility improvements tomorrow; or next month; or next year; or five years from now. But I’ll keep working at it, doing my best to be more capable every day than I was the day before.

$ 0.02

I wish: a brief lament

I realized a couple weeks ago that I’ve kind of gotten used to most of the lasting effects of my spinal cord injury. If I’m distracted by other things, I just move. But if I think about the ways I move differently now, I notice deficiencies.

Most of the time when I notice deficiencies, I either focus my conscious brain on engaging the muscles that aren’t working right; or I think to myself something like, “I need to exercise that muscle more intentionally.”

The view from as high as we got

The other day, though, I got frustrated. See, what happened is that we were out hiking. We had just started down when we were passed by this guy who had a child in his backpack. He was moving quickly, and with confidence. He didn’t look rushed. He moved really smoothly and fluidly as he flew by us.

I thought to myself (as I focused almost all my attention on foot placement and muscle engagement), “I used to move like that. I wish I could still move like that.”

When I think about how much more extensive my injury could have been, I recognize that I’m ridiculously lucky to be as mobile as I am. And still every so often I lament what I’ve lost.

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

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.

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.