I've never had my feet fail me before.
There have been years of dancing in studios, across the stage and even down the grocery isles. Years of training, years of trusting, and years of knowing that my body knew what to do. 13 years to be exact. Unlucky 13, as it turns out. Oh sure, I've taken falls before. But my feet always found a way to get me down to the ground safely without injury, or at most a minor one.
Not this time.
I've replayed it in my head a thousand times. I know exactly how I landed on my foot, and I've got the x-ray to prove it. I know the sound of a sprained ankle, having done my right one a couple times. The closest thing I can equate to that noise is the sound of popping a balloon with a pin. But this, this was definitely a crack. I knew as soon as the rest of my body hit the ground that I wasn't going to be getting up right away.
My first thought was of work. Being injured means I don't work. If I don't work, I don't get paid. Having hardly been out of school for 2 months, this is truly the last thing I need. My next thoughts were of the plans I had coming up: a ceilidh (a social event at which there is Irish folk music, dancing, singing and storytelling) that I had been invited to not 30 minutes prior, getting myself out to the golf course, the bike ride I'd planned and the hiking trail I wanted to revisit. Not to mention my upcoming birthday, typically which I'd like to go out dancing or something of the sort.
A quick drive to my Mum's and shortly thereafter a wait at the Urgent Care Center. Thankfully maybe only an hour or so after that and my fears were confirmed. It was definitely broken. I bawled my eyes out at the thought of not working and being restricted. I was sent home with a temporary half-cast, and instructions to be up bright and early to visit the Fracture Clinic. My visit there concluded with a $200 walking boot, and instructions to come back in 3 weeks for a followup (and ideally all would be healed by then).
3 weeks off work. Everyone I talked said they wished they had a 3 week break. Sure it would be nice, if I could actually get out and do anything. The first 4 days were the hardest, movement restricted by my need for crutches, and the narcotics putting me to sleep for hours on end. Any trip to the bathroom or kitchen had to be well planned and, upon execution, tired me out.
Thankfully I am allowed to sit with my boot off, its sole purpose to prevent me from knocking the injured area and making it worse. I stared down at the bruised anomaly, foot flopping helplessly, naked and useless. I felt betrayed. "Why didn't you catch me?" I thought to myself. I wanted to be angry at my foot, but really that just means being angry at myself. Maybe after all this time I'd become lazy about the thought required of dancing and technique, and in that lapse this accident happened.
The hardest part of any betrayal is forgiveness. And regaining that trust. When the boot comes off, and I have the go ahead from the doctor, am I going to be able to trust my feet again? How much time will it take for me to feel safe again dancing and jumping and putting this injury behind me?
I already have plans for how to reintegrate my foot back into the world, outside the safety of the boot. And of how I plan to approach my first dance class back. As for the rest, it will all work itself out. I'll just have to take it one step at a time.
There have been years of dancing in studios, across the stage and even down the grocery isles. Years of training, years of trusting, and years of knowing that my body knew what to do. 13 years to be exact. Unlucky 13, as it turns out. Oh sure, I've taken falls before. But my feet always found a way to get me down to the ground safely without injury, or at most a minor one.
Not this time.
I've replayed it in my head a thousand times. I know exactly how I landed on my foot, and I've got the x-ray to prove it. I know the sound of a sprained ankle, having done my right one a couple times. The closest thing I can equate to that noise is the sound of popping a balloon with a pin. But this, this was definitely a crack. I knew as soon as the rest of my body hit the ground that I wasn't going to be getting up right away.
My first thought was of work. Being injured means I don't work. If I don't work, I don't get paid. Having hardly been out of school for 2 months, this is truly the last thing I need. My next thoughts were of the plans I had coming up: a ceilidh (a social event at which there is Irish folk music, dancing, singing and storytelling) that I had been invited to not 30 minutes prior, getting myself out to the golf course, the bike ride I'd planned and the hiking trail I wanted to revisit. Not to mention my upcoming birthday, typically which I'd like to go out dancing or something of the sort.
A quick drive to my Mum's and shortly thereafter a wait at the Urgent Care Center. Thankfully maybe only an hour or so after that and my fears were confirmed. It was definitely broken. I bawled my eyes out at the thought of not working and being restricted. I was sent home with a temporary half-cast, and instructions to be up bright and early to visit the Fracture Clinic. My visit there concluded with a $200 walking boot, and instructions to come back in 3 weeks for a followup (and ideally all would be healed by then).
3 weeks off work. Everyone I talked said they wished they had a 3 week break. Sure it would be nice, if I could actually get out and do anything. The first 4 days were the hardest, movement restricted by my need for crutches, and the narcotics putting me to sleep for hours on end. Any trip to the bathroom or kitchen had to be well planned and, upon execution, tired me out.
Thankfully I am allowed to sit with my boot off, its sole purpose to prevent me from knocking the injured area and making it worse. I stared down at the bruised anomaly, foot flopping helplessly, naked and useless. I felt betrayed. "Why didn't you catch me?" I thought to myself. I wanted to be angry at my foot, but really that just means being angry at myself. Maybe after all this time I'd become lazy about the thought required of dancing and technique, and in that lapse this accident happened.
The hardest part of any betrayal is forgiveness. And regaining that trust. When the boot comes off, and I have the go ahead from the doctor, am I going to be able to trust my feet again? How much time will it take for me to feel safe again dancing and jumping and putting this injury behind me?
I already have plans for how to reintegrate my foot back into the world, outside the safety of the boot. And of how I plan to approach my first dance class back. As for the rest, it will all work itself out. I'll just have to take it one step at a time.
Comments
Post a Comment