Gracelessly

Let me first point out the IRONY of this post…directly following “Fitness Gamble” from May. In reference to soccer, here is what I had to say:

"Before each game, I coached myself, “play smart, slow down, let the ball do the work”. But truth is, I love the feel of side-by-side sprinting, and gaining an edge over the other player and meeting the ball first. Furthermore, a game with no physical contact would be boring indeed. I don’t seek it, but when it finds me, I am ready to engage, mass-to-mass, sweat upon sweat, legs entangled and then free. I am a competitor."

I chose not to play outdoor soccer this year, and found myself enjoying hiking and biking. However, after six months of not playing, and during a particularly self-isolating part of my year, I decided to go play a game. I yearned to do something I felt good at, and I wanted the camaraderie of the amazing women I’d played with. 

As you may know, I sustained an injury. A recap (August 29th):

The forward and I sprinted along the side of the field; she had possession of the ball; my job was to keep her to the outside, or take the ball away. Within scoring range, she pushed the ball ahead of her, and in a burst of speed, I got to the ball first. I touched the ball once, and she “took me out” from behind. She didn’t aim for or touch the ball at all. I fell hard, and landed directly, and with force, onto my left kneecap. Yes!—she did get a penalty called against her. I have heard many people say things like, “But soccer isn’t a contact sport! Is it?” to which I reply, “Have you not watched World Cup, or the Olympics?” There is legal, illegal, and accidental contact.

Here's the thing, in the moment of side-by-side sprinting, equal forces are at play: one player wants to score, and the other wants to prevent her from shooting. Competitive players act in ways that they would not condone in others. There is a loss of conscious and rational thought; there is only the ball, between you and a goal. I have always been a competitive player, and though I play a different game than I did in my twenties, if someone plays competitively against me—I am all in. 😏

So, I knew the risk, and played anyway. 

_________

I walked into physio this week feeling down about my perceived lack of progress, amongst other things. My physiotherapist Rhonda is realistic, and optimistic. I think she benefits from having her expectations, of her patients’ progress, in the realm of possible. I had been treated by Rhonda for three previous injuries; each time, through her unwavering guidance and my diligent work, I healed and then strengthened beyond my prior state.

As I “warmed up” on the bike by swinging my injured and still deformed leg in a shuddering arc, up and down, but not around, tears dripped from the corners of my eyes. My inner coach, who is not always helpful told me to “pull yourself together, do you want people to see you crying over NOTHING?” I wanted to scream at my inner coach, but just then Rhonda appeared, and she had a student in her shadow. I wiped my palms down my face removing the glistening tracks. 

“How’s it doing?” she asked, nodding toward my leg. 

I looked at my knee, “It’s okay,” I said. 

“Can you go all the way around yet?”

“No.” My foot swung like a weight on a pendulum, and Rhonda’s head bobbed up and down. 

“It looks like you will be able to go around backwards first,” she noted, and I nodded. “Put the seat up one notch, and try to go all the way around.” She walked away.

“Maybe I should have brought my platform shoes,” I said. She laughed. 

I lay on the treatment table, and Rhonda measured my range of motion. She explained to her student what my leg looked like when I first came. Like a proud Mama I whipped out my phone and showed him pictures.

 “Spectacular hey?” I said. He said he’d never seen anything like it. My range of motion had improved from 60 degrees—two weeks after the injury—to 110 degrees this week—five weeks out. (135 degrees is normal flexion) Rhonda then talked with the student about my body parts as if I wasn’t even there. 

“There are times when the injury to the bursa is so severe that it won’t go back to it’s original shape,” she said. And then her and the student took turns feeling my bursa. “Feel here,” she said. 

“Ohhh…” he responded, and grimaced. 

What? What are you feeling? “Is it scar tissue?” I asked, but got no answer. 

“And if it doesn’t heal?” he asked. 

“Some people just live without full range of motion in their knee. But, for athletes, the bursa may have to come out,” she told him. 

Come out. What? Hello, I’m right here. Are we talking about Madam Pomfrey removing it in the Hogwarts hospital wing, or like . . . surgery? Have I ever mentioned that I throw up after surgery?

Later Rhonda looked at me, and said, “When you walked in today, you were walking funny.” 

Duh! . . . I’ve got an injury here.

“Can you walk down there and back?” I did, and she watched me, her head tilting the way a dog’s does when we talk to them like they are humans. “Why are you dragging your leg like that?” she asked. 

Well . . . I’m either auditioning for a part in a “Mommy turns Zombie” movie, or training for the three-legged race in the upcoming “Unusual Athlete Games” set in Narnia! 

She stared intently at me, her bionic eyes boring through my skin and fat and into my muscles. “Try this,” she said, and lifted her leg up, knee bent—the way you would if you were climbing onto a rock, or a raised box. I mimicked her. “Yes! Good,” she said, with the enthusiasm of a mother watching her baby take its first step. “You still have your hip flexors,” she told me, “you need to over-exaggerate the use of your hip flexors when you walk. Walk down there again, using your hip flexor.”

I did it. I felt uncoordinated and foolish. Every second step, I willfully lifted my left leg.

“Much better,” she said. 

“I guess that will prevent me from falling down now,” I said, and she tilted her head again. “When I get tired, my dragging foot gets caught on stuff. Last night when I picked up my daughter at gymnastics, I caught my foot on a mat, and went smack, face first into the ground.” 

She raised her eyebrow, and then walked away, “See you in two weeks,” she said. 

 I gathered my things, and left. My right leg moved effortlessly while my left leg rose as if it were on a string controlled by some force just out of sight. I felt like a puppet-human hybrid. I realized that I could perhaps conjure puppet strings for any part of my body-soul.