Frustration and Losing Hope ... ???

I was wondering if, or when, it would happen – and it has. I’ve gotten to the point of regularly being frustrated.

I’m not talking about work, or about family, or about politics, or about global warming. While each of those things sometimes is (or can be) frustrating, what I’m thinking about in this moment is physicality and movement.

See, here’s the thing. After I broke myself, when I was laying in an ICU bed, I remember being able to move my left arm, but not my other three limbs. I started at Craig Hospital in a motorized wheelchair. The switched me to a standard wheelchair after a couple days, which I used until I was released. I walked out of the hospital using crutches, and went home with a wheelchair in the car, which gathered dust until I returned it to Craig.

I spent months using one or two crutches to take some weight off of my legs while I was walking – and then moved to hiking poles, because my balance was still pretty bad. I don’t remember specifically when, but there came a time that I could walk without any additional support. I walked awkwardly, and felt like I looked like I was perpetually drunk.

For most of that time I was subconsciously hopeful, and expected that the way I was able to move would continue to improve. And for a long time, that’s what happened – I would regularly notice that some set of muscles was stronger or some movement more fluid than it had been. I subconsciously hoped, and almost expected, that those improvements would continue.

I used to be way more
graceful, less awkward

Recently, though, that subconscious hope seems to have vanished, because it’s been months since I experienced even a hint of physical improvement. And that feeling of frustration was exacerbated when I watched a video from this past weekend of (among other things) me walking – in which I looked almost as awkward as I felt.

Please don’t misunderstand. I am and will remain tremendously grateful that I’ve been gifted with this much improvement in mobility so far. And I intend to continue to try to regain the remainder of what I’ve lost. And simultaneously, it’s tremendously frustrating, when I’m walking up stairs, to have to choose between 1) intentionally being conscious to actively think about which muscles are working and 2) tripping.

Two Years

Two years ago today a big chunk of my reality changed. 

As my seven readers might know, on March 18, 2019 I was involved in some kind of skiing accident which left me in one hospital for ten days and another hospital for five weeks.  Nope, I don’t have the slightest idea what happened on the mountain. Yep, I got to ride in a helicopter. Nope, I don’t remember the helicopter ride. Yep, I’d like to go for another flight in a helicopter someday, but without the trauma. 

The effects of that trauma still remain. They’ve diminished over the past two years, but my mobility is still limited. 

I count myself ridiculously lucky to be able to walk. And I wish it was easier to walk without limping. And as much as I dislike running, I wish I could. 

I love that I can go up and down stairs. And I wish that I didn’t have to focus on every single step I take going up and down. But I still take the stairs instead of the escalator most of the time.

I feel like being able to work out in a gym setting like I used to is life-giving. And I lament having lost capacity across all exercise categories. Still, I’m gonna do what I’ve been doing in the gym for the past eight years, which is simply working on getting fitter tomorrow than I am today. 

Maybe more than all the other physical realities, I’m really stoked that I can still ride bikes. 

***

But physicality, while it’s really important, is only one small part of reality. Over the past two years, I’ve been able to explore my sense of self within the context of physicality. And I’ve also been able to do the same within the contexts of love in relationship; and family; and community; and vocation. And I’ve come to realize that I win. 

Vocation: The congregation I was serving as pastor surrounded me with so much prayer and care that I was overwhelmed (and that support was both related and unrelated to my injury). And the congregation I started serving as pastor almost one year ago has accepted me without reservation, entirely unrelated to my physical circumstance. Also (and this should be obvious), people of all different physical abilities can be pastors. 

Community: In addition to the folks who are connected to the congregations where I’ve been a pastor, there are lots of other people who stepped up and surrounded me and my family with support and encouragement and help. The fitnessing community, the music community, and the friends community were all invaluable to me for a variety of reasons … mostly just helping to keep me mentally and emotionally stable. 

Family: My parents, children, step-children, and extended family have all treated me with the right amount of care and concern that was balanced by just enough sarcasm and name-calling that I felt as normal as possible over these two years. 

Love in Relationship: I don’t know where I would be right now if I didn’t get to be part of an amazing relationship based in mutual love and respect. I’ve thought about it, and I’m entirely certain that I would be much worse off if Nicole and I weren’t together through what feels like a circus of continually
confusing chaos (much of which has almost nothing to do with any Spinal Cord Injury). Even more, it is really joyful and life-giving to be able to journey through the adventure that is life with someone who I enjoy adventuring with.

***

It’s been two years as of today since a big chunk of my reality changed. Sure, I have physical limitations as a result of the incident two years ago. And sure, sometimes those physical limitations are frustrating. But that incident is only one part of my story, and certainly not the most important part. Having broken myself while skiing two years ago doesn’t define me. I am defined to a much greater degree by embracing and being embraced by those who love me. 

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.

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.