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. 

I Count Myself Lucky

I count myself lucky. 

I will likely never regain the physical capacity that I lost three and a half years ago. Once in a while, it really bums me out. 

This morning, for instance, I remembered some of the jobs I’ve had. I’ve worked on a construction site, I’ve had a couple of jobs in restaurants, I’ve hauled hay (the old school way from 35 years ago, where you walk through the field picking up 75 lb bales one at a time and throwing them onto the trailer that’s driving through the field). 

I realized this morning that during the time I’ve been a pastor, I always had in the back of my mind the idea that if the church ever decides that they don’t want me in this role any longer, I could go get another physical job like I used to do. 

Except that this morning while I was thinking about those jobs, I realized that I probably wouldn’t be able to do them now, because I haven’t regained enough mobility. 

The truth is that I probably won’t ever need to get a physically demanding job again. And I can get around well enough to do everything that I need to do without any accommodation - two truths for which I count myself lucky.

Nobody Cares: Train Harder and Ride Faster

I sewed a patch on my gym bag a couple months ago. It says, “Nobody Cares: Train Harder”. Not too long after that, I saw an advertisement for customizable headset caps to go on bicycles. I ordered one that echoes the gym bag patch - “Nobody Cares: Ride Faster”.

I look at these when I start to slow down during a workout or on a training ride. They remind me that I’m in charge of my own fitness. I could come up with lots of excuses to go easier in training. However, the excuse won’t make me any fitter. Putting in the work will. 

I’ve spent the past couple of years getting used to being resigned to the truth that I’ll never have the physical capacity that I used to have. Not too long after I was released from Craig Hospital (one of the premier Spinal Cord Injury rehabilitation facilities), folks asked me if I was 100% recovered. I replied that I was not, and never would be, back to full capacity. 

And I’ve repeated that statement plenty of times over the past three years. I repeated it enough that I started to internalize the message. It was a slow and subtle attitudinal shift, but I went from:

* working diligently to regain as much of what I had lost in the aftermath of the accident as possible, to

* working some, but writing off my limited capacity to the accident.  

The other day I was riding my bike home from work. As I started up the one significant hill on that route, I started to slow down. My subconscious mind allowed me to slow down, because I wasn’t in shape like I had been before the accident. Then my conscious mind remembered the headset cap, ignored the excuse, and rode faster for the rest of the climb up and over the crest of the hill. 

As gravity started to help me out on the downhill, I passed by a bus stop at a wide spot in the road. I remembered that spot as being a place where I had to stop to rest when I first started commuting to work by bicycle after the accident. 

I will likely never regain the physical capacity that I lost three and a half years ago. I’ve decided, though, to ignore that reality - and to train harder and ride faster. 

$0.02

Annual 14er climb

I have a tradition. Every year, on or near my birthday, I climb (or attempt to climb) one of the Colorado 14ers - mountains that reach to higher than 14,000 feet above sea level. I missed attempting a climb three years ago, because at that time I was still using crutches to walk down the sidewalk. 

These days even though I don’t need to use crutches to walk down the sidewalk, I still use trekking poles when I go hiking. They help me keep my balance when I’m navigating tricky parts of the trail, and they help me keep my balance on the simple and straightforward parts of the trail. 

The view from high on Huron Peak

This year we climbed Huron Peak. It’s one of the mountains that barely rises high enough to qualify as a 14er, topping out at 14,006 (according to 14ers.com). It’s one of the mountains that has a really straightforward and simple (but not necessarily easy) trail to the top. 

And I struggled. I struggled with (a lack of) fitness. I struggled with breathing at that elevation (related, at least in part, to the previously-mentioned lack of fitness). I struggled, like I do regularly, with making sure my foot ended up where I intended it to end up for almost every step of the 9.6 mile round trip. I struggled with lack of stamina, ending the hike completely worn out and stumbling over flat ground in the final two miles to the car. 

I continue to deal with the effects of a spinal cord injury that I sustained a few years ago, and I continue to deal with (relatively minor) mobility issues as a result of that spinal cord injury. The injury slows me down a little bit, especially compared to how much I might have been slowed down, if the effects from the injury were more significant. Basically, it slows me down enough that I’m frustrated by how I move, especially because I remember how I was able to move through the high country before the accident. 

And at the same time, even though I walk slowly and carefully and sometimes awkwardly, I actually am able to walk - not only down the sidewalk, but also through the high country. 

I’m continually back and forth - always thankful that I can move as well as I can, and always frustrated at what I’ve lost. 

Here’s the thing, at least for right now. Even though I am able to walk, I still wish I could still leap between boulders, and hop down steep trails, and bound down the smooth trail. I can continue to work on stamina and fitness. But I still lament that I might never have the ability to move through the mountains, or anywhere, the way I used to.

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.