We Went Bowling

We went bowling the other day. The weather wasn't ideal for being outside, so we went to the bowling alley (there was also an arcade, laser tag, a restaurant, and a bar). 

I enjoyed bowling back in the day. I remember going bowling a couple times with my family, and I went with my friends at least a few times when I was in high school. It was fun. I was never actually very good, and never cared that I wasn't. No, that's not true. I wished that I was good, but not enough to even want to think about spending a bunch of time getting good. I was good enough to almost always throw at least one strike every ten frames, and good enough to bowl 185 this one time. 

I always felt like my technique was decent, that I was in control of how I moved, where I stepped, and how aggressively I sent the ball down the lane. We went bowling once fairly soon after I got out of the hospital. I was ridiculously weak, had really bad balance, and was nowhere close to being comfortable with the new way my legs moved. So I used that ramp-thing that little kids use. But the other day I didn't use that ramp-thing. 

I bowled all on my own, assuming (without thinking about it) that I would be able to bowl just like I had done when I was young. Except when I took the first approach I was at least a foot and a half too far back. So I started my approach a little forward of where I always used to. And then I fell down. Twice. 

And I realized that I'm not able to bowl like I used to, My approach was much shorter than it used to be, my footwork was awkward and halting, and my arm swing was uncertain. So I had to figure out how to be better. So I slowed down, picked up a lighter ball, focused on the placement of my feet and my arm swing, and tried to replicate what I had been able to do before the accident. 

After a few frames that were mentally exhausting because I was focusing so much energy on which muscles move in which ways, I bowled a strike! I was briefly excited. But obviously I can't be satisfied with one singular strike for more than a couple seconds. So immediately after I bowled a strike I thought, "Well, if I can bowl one strike, then I can bowl two." So I did. 

After the second strike I thought, "Cool. Also, I've never bowled a Turkey (three strikes in a row). I wonder if there's any way under heaven that I would be able to bowl another strike right now." And I did. 

First ever Turkey. On the same day that I was struggling because I can't bowl like I used to be able to. 

So once again I was face to face with the reality that I'm physically different after the accident than I was before. And also I was confronted with the truth that I actually am able to work with or through my altered physicality to do new things, or to do old things in new ways. 

Which means, I suppose, that I'll continue trying to get better and stronger and more physically adept at whatever I try to do. 

Not Dead Yet Day

Yesterday we celebrated Not Dead Yet Day, the anniversary of the date I sustained a spinal cord injury. Yesterday was five years since I broke myself on the side of a mountain. We celebrated by skiing at Eldora, the same resort where I hurt myself. It was a beautiful bluebird day, and we were skiing on good snow that had fallen a couple days before. 

As we were driving down the mountain after skiing, I realized that we were traveling at probably the exact same time as I had traveled from the mountain to the hospital five years ago - this time we took the trip in a car instead of a helicopter. 

It was a good day because of the company. It was a good day because of the snow conditions. It was a good day because I'm still able to ski. It was a good day because I'm not dead. Yet.

My amazing wife took a couple photos of me skiing yesterday. The run I was on felt challenging while I was skiing. I made it down without wiping out, which I felt pretty good about. 

After we got home, I looked at the photos. That run looks really easy, and I look really hesitant. I don't look like someone who's taken on a challenging route, and navigated it successfully. I look like a beginner who's relatively uncomfortable in their body. 

Which, I suppose, is accurate. Not only while I'm skiing. Awkward and hesitant is how I feel most of the time while I'm skiing. It's also how I feel most of the time when I try to do almost anything involving my legs. Climbing stairs, turning a corner while walking, putting my shoes on - these things all take intentional conscious thought, and feel awkward.  

Yesterday though (for maybe the first time in the past five years), a couple of the runs we took were really good. The turns felt smooth, I felt like I had control of both legs, and I was pretty sure I could have stopped when I needed to. I felt like I was skiing; I felt like I remember feeling on skis before the accident.

Those moments were fleeting. I went right back to feeling awkward and hesitant. But I'm gonna do my best to remember the good runs instead of dwelling on the others.