Five Years; Trauma Unravelling

It’s been five years. Five years since the news that my life would be changing considerably and I would be living the rest of my life without some of my leg muscles along for the ride. 

The thing with trauma and processing is that it’s not neat and clean; it’s messy, hard, frustrating, and unrelenting at times. Over the last five years there has been a lot of wanting to “come to terms” with this life change and all the traumatic things that happened during my hospital stay. Unfortunately getting too close to those painful realities and staring them straight in the eye was often an experience that was just. too. hard. I’ve  spent a lot of time trying to focus on anything but myself. I poured myself into work and spent time working three jobs at times, just trying to fill every spare moment so there was no time to slow down and process life. I thought that if it just kept moving at a pace that was ultimately unsustainable, that maybe I could ignore having to deal with the impossibly hard processing. I spent many hours in therapy trying to work through this, often feeling completely overwhelmed. I numbed things in many ways, and spent a lot of time relying on unhealthy ways to cope. I had told myself that focusing on me meant having to rehash these things and focus on the toughest parts of this new reality and the larger questions it brings up for me. There was a fusion built between taking care of myself and having to deal with the pain (both physical and emotional), so I neglected taking care of myself altogether. 

I needed to separate the idea in my mind that taking care of myself was going to lead to pain. I needed to rewire my brain to recognize that I can take care of different parts of me and they do not all have to lead to me coming back to that trauma and the “tough stuff” that goes along with it. So as I now work with people experiencing trauma, I often ask them if there is a part of them that they would be willing to take care of that seems manageable for now. To me that has become an important thing, because over time I know and trust that I will be ready to process things in their due time, but sometimes the messiness of things does not need to be dealt with immediately.  

I have committed to taking care of myself by doing all I can to take care of my physical body, and this has already paid dividends in so many ways. My diabetes has never been so well controlled, my overall mental health is doing much better, and as a bonus I have lost 60 pounds already. But that isn’t the focus. The focus is taking care of me, and realizing that sometimes taking care of myself isn’t going to accomplish checking off that “deal with trauma” checkbox. But the most ironic thing that I am starting to find is that as I take care of the one part of me that seems manageable at the moment, it seems that the other unsurmountable things are becoming a lot easier to deal with. I am still very much on this journey and can’t definitively tell you this is the one way to do things, but I have found that taking control of what I can manage for now has been mighty helpful for my overall well-being and mental health! 

Four Years Later...

It was four years ago that a paramedic tried to calm me down by asking me if I had talked to my parents yet. “No” I bawled at him, as he asked me if I knew their phone number. I purposefully hadn’t called my parents in the 48 hours I had been in the hospital, because we were still trying to figure out what was wrong. My thought was that I would call them when the doctors at least knew something, because the unknowns would not be comforting to my parents in Ontario as I was 5000km away on the West Coast. That logic seemed fine when I didn’t have any idea what was coming, and it had never even crossed my mind that the outcome of that hospital stay was going to be so life-changing.

The idea of calling my parents when I was in excruciating pain didn’t seem like the best idea to me, but the paramedic handed me his phone anyways. Despite being in the worst pain of my life, and being pumped full of about 20 different narcotics, my brain somehow still remembered my parents phone number (muscle memory for the win!). I think the paramedic thought I would be able to be distracted by talking to my parents and therefore I would focus less on the pain. As the phone rang I was screaming out in pain, and the thought of someone picking up on the other end wasn’t exactly comforting.

My dad answered the phone and I cried out to him telling him I was in excruciating pain. He did what he would do as the ultra-supportive dad he is, and told me that everything was going to be ok. After telling me to breathe and calm down, I yelled that I was going into emergency surgery, and immediately the tone on the other end of the phone changed. Still supportive, I could hear the panic in my dad’s voice and the realization that I wasn’t just overreacting to something minor.  It was close to impossible to come up with sentences and focus on anything but how much pain was surging through my body at that point in time, but I still had to try and communicate to my dad what was going on. I conjured up some language in between wailing and moaning in pain as I asked the paramedic what was wrong with me, so that I could tell my dad patiently waiting on the other end of the line. “Compartment syndrome” he replied. As I echoed the response into the other end of the phone, my dad had the same response that I had. “What is that even?” Unfortunately I couldn’t help him as I had just been introduced to the term mere hours before and with my foggy state I couldn’t even remember what it was called.

I don’t remember the end of the phone call even, or what happened from there, but I know talking to my parents did not pleasantly distract me as the paramedic had hoped. At that moment I was on a stretcher in an open part of the ER waiting room, visible to most people in the area. I am usually mortified of people looking at me or paying attention to me, so much so that I won’t leave a lecture to go to the bathroom because I know it will just garner attention that I do not want. But this was different. After 48 hours of suppressing pain and being told I “probably just had shin splints” and hearing every doctor and nurse insinuate that you’re just overreacting and they can’t imagine how the pain could be getting that much worse, I finally could not hold it in any longer.

I had been air lifted to this hospital and during the flight was the most intense pain I had ever felt. I was supposed to have my legs strapped in and everything tightly contained, but there was absolutely no way I could go without flailing my leg around to help with the immense amount of pain surging through my lower extremity. The paramedic could tell by the look on my face that I was VERY serious when I told him there was NO way I would be strapping my legs in.  As the plane landed and the ambulance transported us the remainder of the way, I could feel every pothole and bump surge through my body like a bolt of electricity. During the transport from one hospital to another the pain had ramped up and I could no longer keep my screaming inside. I yelled loud enough for probably the whole lower mainland to hear me…and I wasn’t even on the lower mainland.

There were no rooms left in the ER, so I was brought to half a room with a reclining chair in it for me to sit. The poor little old lady on the other side of the curtain advocated for me as I screamed and howled in pain. She kept getting the doctors and nurses for me exclaiming to them “I think she’s in pain”. As cute as it was, and as much as she wanted to see me helped, there was nothing they could do until a surgery room opened. All I could do was wait while they continued to flood me with narcotics in hopes that something would touch the pain at all.

As the years pass since this less-than-fun ordeal, the intensity of the pain fades, but the recollection of those hours and days of what felt like excruciating torture does not.  I find myself walking through each and every moment and day of the process in my mind, remembering vividly what was going on around me. Maybe that was my way of distracting myself, by tuning in to anything but the pain. 

This experience has been an awful one, but it has equipped me in my line of work, helping me to understand others who have experienced trauma and how we can’t predict how our brain is going to process something or put it all together. As much as we (I) love things to be linear and orderly, that just isn’t how any of this comes to make any sense. It comes in flashes of different memories and moments that happened throughout the time. Like the moment I was told my leg muscles had to be removed and I was left alone to process what this meant for my life. Or the moment I realized I had lost all nerve endings in my lower leg across that muscle compartment and did not know if this would ever return. Being told I would be able to hike and do activities with a cane, or beginning to walk only to realize I had drop foot. These moments were among many that took processing and required a shift in thoughts as to what my life may look like from then on.

I have learned a lot. I have learned that we don’t choose when we are going to process things, and sometimes we just need to go along for the ride and be open to the (sometimes very hard) lessons that come along the way. As I work with others impacted by trauma in different ways, I can understand the frustrations of wanting to tick off the box that says “deal with ____ trauma” and be done with it. Unfortunately that’s just not the way we process things, and I am often the one wanting to change this reality and find a way to cheat the system. “Maybe if I specifically give time for this to sink and fully be processed, then I can move on” or “perhaps if I just slowed life down for a while this would be easier” are thoughts that creep into my mind. The reality is though, that this will never be “over”. There is not going to be a moment in time where suddenly all of this has a crisp, neat ending. Life is messy, and this one moment in time will continue to impact things for a long time to come.

I used to be focused on climbing mountains and getting the most out of my young adult life, seeing places and adventuring in any way I could. I still love to do all these things, but will have a significant amount of pain to manage when lacing up my hiking boots or taking on any physical adventure. Even the activities that are “easiest” on my leg come with their fair share of difficulties. Each summer I battle through broken ankle(s) from the repetitive motion of an ankle unsupported by muscles when riding my bike. This is one of many things that have just become part of my reality. 

I seem to write as a source of corralling my jumbled thoughts, and often during this time of year I find myself reflecting a lot on those days.  As I sit and think about what four years has taught me, it allows me to gain perspective on some things. One of the biggest things I have learned from this is the amount of time that something can have an impact on you. Trauma or otherwise, this has given me an understanding of people and our many ways of coping and understanding life events. I know that as time passes the amount of time that I think about these things is lessened, but I still do know that four years later I can still find myself waking up from panicked dreams walking through each moment of some of the rougher patches during this ordeal. I know that every person experiences life and trauma in different ways, but if I were to have one takeaway from the reflections of this year, it would be this: have grace for people. Allow healing and processing to take place, and be open to listening to each step of the journey for someone else, because that may be a great source of healing for him or her. As much as I don’t want this to still be something that impacts my life, I know that it does. But I also know that from this experience I have grown and gained many valuable life lessons and perspective. So I’m going to take the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of this experience and continue trekking into whatever lessons and processing is to come.

Crossing Rivers

Something only few people know is that I had planned a trip to Iceland, Scotland, and England a few years ago! I was so excited when looking at the beautiful things we would see and daydreaming of the hiking adventures me and Robyn Haarsma would find ourselves on. Unfortunately when I say planned, this is the only stage of the trip that was able to happen as my world started to crumble on April 27, 2014 when I got emergency compartment syndrome leading to my muscles being removed. I distinctly remember talking to Robyn after and having to tell her through tears that unfortunately I wouldn't be able to go. Robyn was so understanding and wondered if there was a modified way we could do this trip (THAT folks is what a best friend is), but the unknown answers to questions of what my abilities would be after rehabilitation left us with many people saying no. I was presumed to be in a brace and using a cane for the rest of my life, and doctors certainly didn't think my time in a wheelchair and walker would be so short-stayed. The trip had changed destinations and courses many times to try and make things work, but that summer there would be no trip happening for me. 

Since then I've had this spark in me to see Iceland and hike through Scotland as we had once planned. So when a few short weeks ago I was given the opportunity on a Sunday to go to Iceland with a friend (booked on the Monday and then left on the Thursday), I am sure Jen had no idea how monumental the idea of going to Iceland was for me. I have distinct memories of dreaming about what I would have been hiking, climbing, and doing in Iceland while I laid in a hospital bed and was in the middle of questioning whether I would ever do any of these things again. I had just about experienced death in the recovery room and after the trauma of watching all my vitals flatline as nurses around me hurriedly told me to keep breathing while intubating me and telling each other "she's going septic", I was simply happy to be alive. At that point it didn't matter what parts of my body had survived or not survived, it was simply amazing that I had made it through whatever was happening in the recovery room. 

As I reflect now I need to remember those moments because I tend to lose that attitude of gratitude when I am not faced with the alternative of death at my doorstep. It's easy to start complaining about what is hard and challenging with fewer muscles in my body. However, on this trip to Iceland, which was monumental in itself, I found myself faced with an incredibly ironic and monumental situation. While hiking this incredibly gorgeous hike, we suddenly approached this river. Jen had talked about how there was a river crossing, but I guess in my head it was a little less dramatic. Most of you know that by having my leg muscles removed, it seriously effects balance in that leg. So most activities can be done, but things like say, balancing on wet logs over a rushing river, are just things I would casually put into the "I can't do that" category. Fast forward  to that rushing river that crosses over amazingly-spectacular landscapes, but also happens to be a guide-wire leading you across wet rocks and onto a hanging wet log suspended over rushing water. No big deal to anyone else. Slight heart attack for me. But here I was: in Iceland, facing a very large challenge since having these muscles removed. I crossed the river two times (there and back) and was able to complete something really monumental for me during an otherwise ordinary moment for other people. I did fall on the way back over (not badly at all..just a slip) but it kind of was a metaphorical moment. Yes, there are considerably more slips and falls in my life now. If you know me, I both hate them and joke about them constantly because you just have to get back up. Iceland had a few more falls than that one, but the end result was amazing! It was a trip that I'd been waiting for for such a long time, and I had no idea it would happen that weekend. Now I just need to hike across Scotland with Robyn Haarsma to complete that trip ;) I bought the lonely planet guide a couple weeks ago...let's get planning!! 

A Year in Review (Take Two)!

Two years. I don’t know why some dates can be so hard, but tomorrow (April 27^th) marks two years since I got compartment syndrome and eventually had to have my leg muscles removed (for more of the story check here: http://chrissy-forcedphysicalfitness.blogspot.ca/2015/04/a-year-in-review.html). For those wanting to understand what the process has been like and what has changed in the past year, feel free to keep reading. I am writing this as forced reflection during some tough upcoming days, but also to let others see glimpses of what this process has been like.

The Marathon Shuffle took place again this past weekend, and thoughts of this bring back memories that make me feel like I’m painfully walking through each day of the process all over again. I remember going to bed tired and content that night, not having any idea what the next hours and days would bring to my life. Nothing was wrong then, and I was proud of a long day of hiking through the beautiful Sunshine Coast Trail. That day was the start of so many changes in my life. I never thought I would wake up to have my leg muscles removed, and I didn’t even know that compartment syndrome existed. Prior to compartment syndrome I would make jokes about feeling that my muscles were going to explode out of my legs while doing strenuous activities like climbing mountains. Little did I know that this is essentially what compartment syndrome is: your muscles expand beyond the space of the immovable fascia, and then eventually the pressure becomes too intense that the muscles die from suffocation. I will not joke about this again, because there is nothing funny about the amount of pain involved in compartment syndrome.

When I planned out my life (as I love to do) it certainly didn’t include chronic pain at 25 and a lifetime of dealing with accommodations and modifications to minimize the pain. I never thought I would be a “pain expert”, and non-nociceptive pain would become the topic for my master’s research paper. I often think that these things happen to other people, but I put a protective bubble around myself and imagine myself immune from some of the rather unfortunate realities that exist in this world. Surprisingly the world doesn’t work according to my idealistic system, and the realities of mediating pain and modified activities have become something I need to become accustomed to. This does not come easily, and sometimes I just want to throw childlike tantrums in hopes that this reality can be reversed.

I remember suffering through what the doctors kept calling bad shin splints, as I wanted so badly to transport them into my body so they could understand this was FAR more than just a shin splint. For over 48 hours the pain became exponentially worse and I went through about 8000 pain drugs and a constant morphine drip with added pain killers about every 20 minutes to try and do anything to numb the pain. The severity of pain with compartment syndrome is a real treat, because it isn’t phased by pain meds. The pain was so bad that I looked like I was going to be knocked out by morphine (I have pictures. But on another note, why do people think it’s appropriate to take pictures at a time like that?), but the pain meds weren’t doing anything. The only thing that did anything was sucking back nitrous oxide (laughing gas) like it was my job! The nurse told me that this was used with women in labour, so we would give it a try. She told me to suck back the gas when I was in pain. Sounded good. The only problem was I was always in pain. I would attempt talking and not be able to do it because I was in so much pain. My friend Ashleigh told me to stop trying to resist it and just to attach it like an oxygen mask. This was the only thing that slightly worked, and I manipulated the nurses into switching out my tank while the initial nurse was on break. When my nurse came back to find out I’d finished an entire tank, she was shocked. She told me I wasn’t going to be allowed any more, but I didn’t want to tell her I had already emptied the second tank. After I had apparently had enough laughing gas for six lifetimes and they wouldn’t allow me to have any more, I went into major decline. Good thing I was only hours away from being air lifted to Comox where I would get the formal diagnosis and be rushed into surgery. After coming out of surgery the nurse in the recovery room looked at my file and then looked at me with an empathetic look as she said “oh my goodness…compartment syndrome. That’s one of the most painful things someone can ever experience!!” I simultaneously wanted to cry and hug the woman; because she was the first person in days that was acknowledging the amount of pain I was experiencing without doubting me.

As time goes on, the mind’s ability to remember the pain fades, which is an incredible blessing. Although the pain fades, the necessary processing that comes after losing a part of your body still remains. So as I reflect on what I’ve learned in the past year I note some of the differences from then to now. For almost the whole first year hope was instilled with the unknown progression that could take place, and the constant changes that went beyond what doctors expected for my recovery. It was amazing to be told that I would not be able to do certain things, and then to prove the doctors wrong. This fostered hope for the future, despite how unknown it seemed and how tough the current circumstances may have been. Unfortunately, eventually progression comes to an end. There isn’t a delineated day where hope leaves, but it is more of a dwindling effect where suddenly you realize that the unknowns start to be replaced with unsettling realities and time will in fact not heal everything. The past year has been difficult as I process the new abilities I have, and bid farewell to some of the things I used to love to do. There is a sinking feeling that accompanies reconfiguring your identity and realizing that some of your abilities are gone and are not coming back. So to sum up, this year has been tough. Tough to try activities and fail, and tough to always be in pain doing the things I love to do. I have constant pain to varying degrees, and some of the worst is nerve pain caused by the suffocation of my nerves all across my feet and up my legs. The nerve pain comes from nerves trying to regenerate, which feels like I am being constantly electrocuted. So far this regeneration has been unsuccessful, but maybe one day these nerves will function normally again. In addition there is a lot of scar tissue that pulls from the inside and creates another layer of pain when doing physical activity. I have never been so aware of the intricacies of our bodies and how one part can have such a huge impact.

As I mentioned in the beginning, this writing is part of some forced reflection because this past year has been the hardest one I have had to live, and I find it extra challenging to think about the lessons I am learning when I am deep in the middle of the muck. Lessons are so much easier in retrospect. I feel slightly convicted as I think back to a lecture I was asked to give at my university last year. The prof interviewed me and asked me a lot of questions, most which were factual and had objective, straightforward answers. But I still remember the final question that he asked: what advice would you give the seventeen-year-old first-year students that make up this class after going through this? I felt like I had nothing to share, and I often like to prepare thoughtful answers ahead of time for questions like this. I was only 5 months into this journey, but the advice I gave to the class then remains true and leaves me feeling convicted as I need my advice far more now than those students ever will. I told them that I had learned that if we root our identity in anything material or physical that there is a great risk in these things being taken away from us, so it is important to root our identity in things that are unwavering. I admitted to thinking my identity was rooted in different things, but losing my leg muscles made me very aware that my identity was rooted a lot in the outdoor activities I loved to do, and less in unchanging things. It is important to analyze where our identity comes from, and sometimes that is not as simple as it seems. I also told them to be thankful for their abilities now and to use them, because you never know when these things can be taken from you.  

As I realize I am not living the words of advice I gave to this class of students, I recognize my need to focus on my abilities and be thankful for the things I am able to do. I think of it like looking back on old photos. I often think that I wish I looked like I did then, but also realize that I never actually appreciated what I looked like then, but would take that back now. I am sure some of you can relate to the ridiculousness of that. Similarly, if I focus on what I am not able to do now, I am not using what I AM able to do to the best of my ability. However, there is something inauthentic to me in drawing a line in the sand and telling myself I will only focus on my abilities, rather than what has changed in my life and what I am not able to do. Just as is depicted in Disney’s Inside Out, emotions are a complex thing and contradictory emotions can coexist, and often do. I am going to focus on what I am able to do and challenge myself to really enjoy the things I am able to do, however, while doing the activities I love, I am acknowledging that it’s alright to grieve the activities I am no longer able to do. I will likely still cry when I watch friends doing things I would love to be able to still do, and that’s ok. There is nothing easy about having your abilities taken from you, and I imagine this grieving process could take a while. I am not going to pretend this is easy and only focus on the positives, because that lacks authenticity and authenticity is something I value. Accepting what is gone is just as important as creating new goals and being thankful for the abilities I still have, except the process of accepting loss is not as simple to navigate. For now I am going to focus on doing things I am able to do like playing wheelchair basketball and riding my bike, and I will slowly learn how to grieve those things I loved to do over time. And that is that. I can’t tell you how that is going to happen, because I’m still trying to figure that out myself. One of the biggest things I have learned through going through all of this and learning to counsel others in the midst of it all, is that not everything needs to be tied up with ribbons and bows. Sometimes life is messy, and believe it or not, that can be ok. 

I’ll leave you with a poem I had to write as a class assignment. I feel similarly about this poem as I do about my advice to those first year students; I am not sure I am living it out, but it is probably good to be reminded of. Warning: I am not a poet, so please no judgment. But the theme of changing identity reminded me of lessons I have learned throughout this process.

Broken Identity

A wound, a scar.

At first glance wounds appear to take from you, through physical and emotional scarring. 

A physical scar; an indentation.

However, upon introspection wounds and scars begin a process of identity formation.

Formation that starts with the breaking down of the parts of us that need to be broken.

Identity formation stems from a broken place.

How is identity formed?

What makes us who we are? And how do we come to know what we are defined by?

For me, it is my wounds that have formed who I am.

Brokenness has forced contemplation into what makes me who I am.

I know physical pain. I know it all too well.

Lying in hospital beds, undiagnosed, as pain surged through my body.

I had a physical wound, but left undiagnosed it seemed unreal. 

Does a diagnosis suddenly make something that was already there real? 

Acute compartment syndrome.

The final diagnosis to my indescribable pain.

Something I’d never heard of, yet it was affecting me so personally.

In 48 hours I had gone from climbing mountains to having my leg muscles removed.

In 48 hours my life had changed more than it has in a 48 hour time period before this.

Would I walk again?

What would life look like for this outdoorsy girl without the ability to walk?

I was left physically scarred and un-whole.

Activities I once loved were suddenly compromised.

Walking was a luxury, and one that would not happen for quite some time.

Doctors tried to remain positive as they showed me the brace I would be bound to for life. 

A physical injury that left a physical wound.

Realizations came that my identity was wrapped up in what I did, rather than who I was.

It is hard to define yourself by the things you do, when you can no longer do those things.

Suddenly my identity was in need of a mandatory shift.

What else beyond the physical made me who I am?

What core characteristics make up my identity that will not be altered by circumstance?

Months of contemplating my identity lead to one conclusion:

I am a child of God.

That is it. That is enough. 

As the physical wounds and scarring took time to sink in, the correlating emotional wounds began to take precedence.

From the outside people can see my physical scars.

I control who sees my emotional wounds.  

Often emotional wounds are unseen by others, but are very much present to me.

Control was taken with this physical event.  

So I hold on tightly to anything I am able to control, including my emotional wounds.  

I will control my emotions, and who sees my emotional wounds.

I will control vulnerability, even. A manipulation of sorts.

The longer I hold onto control, the longer I pause the healing of this emotional scar.

I need to allow true vulnerability: telling the truth, regardless of how people respond.

This is where healing takes place for me.

Healing beyond the physical, and a surrender of the uncertainty of outcomes.

Allowing myself to feel whole in the unwholeness that this life event has created.

Being able to rest in knowing that I am ironically more complete after physical parts of me have been removed, as a necessary cleansing and identity shifting has taken place. 

I am wounded. I am scarred.

Both physically and emotionally.

But without this necessary peeling away of parts of me, I would not be forced to consider what actually makes me who I am.

Identity formation stems from a broken place.

A broken place where hope is instilled, despite circumstantial contradiction.

I still do not know fully who I am.

But I think that is a better place to be than resting in a false image of who I thought I was.

I breathe in fully, resting in the uncertainty that is my identity.

As worldly parts of me are uncovered with my recent wounds, I am left unwhole, yet hopeful.

Sometimes there is more beauty in the brokenness.

For me, there is a greater certainty in this unknown identity than my previously formed identity.

For me, unveiling mysteries beyond wounds and scars is a sacred space.

One defined by hope in uncertainty.

And to me, hope in uncertainty is the greatest gift a wound can give.

If you have made it through all of this, that is where I am after two years. Forcing myself to think about what I have learned and to accept both the movement forward and the uncomfortable grieving of activities I once loved. No tidy ending, no ribbons and bows, but further along this journey than a year ago and continuing to learn some really tough (but valuable) life lessons.

A Year in Review

Going from intense beauty to intense pain is the best way to describe this day exactly one year ago. I had just finished hiking a marathon of the glorious Sunshine Coast Trail and had no idea that night and the following days would bring some of the worst pain I could imagine experiencing. I woke up in the middle of the night in intense pain and at first couldn’t figure out why I was up. When I say middle of the night I mean 9:20pm. I was a teacher and it was completely acceptable behaviour to go to bed at 8pm. I quickly realized there were shooting pains in my leg, and after the confusion of being awoken by pain I started to analyze the situation. Quickly I realized I had no feeling across the top of my foot and up the side of my leg, which was really concerning. Thinking it may have been due to the way I was sleeping or something temporary I tried every at-home remedy to fix it and soon realized that I was probably going to need to go to the emergency room, as this was not temporary.

I called my friend and she told me she was on her way to pick me up. The first trip to emergency was a failure as my pain perplexed the doctor, but he decided I was not in enough pain to stay. He opted to give me a deep tissue massage and sent me back home. Unfortunately this massage was a terrible idea and the pain grew exponentially over the next couple hours. Being the somewhat stubborn person I am, as the pain became intense enough to make me want to pass out and start puking, I refused to go back to the emergency room. The doctor already told me there was nothing wrong with me, so why would I go back? I tried every possible thing I could to keep the pain away, not knowing that acute compartment syndrome exists and this was a pain battle I was most certainly going to lose. Soon my friend convinced me that she was taking me back to emergency, and despite my resistance to the idea it was exactly what I needed.

I could write for days about what transpired over the next 48 hours, but there would be a common theme in everything I would write: PAIN. INTENSE, INTENSE, INTENSE PAIN. Finally after discovering that I likely had compartment syndrome, they had me air lifted to Comox where I would be rushed into surgery. A few hours earlier I had never heard of compartment syndrome, and now it was taking over my life. How could something you didn’t even know exists suddenly be impacting you so personally? I remember googling compartment syndrome as my friend had left the hospital to go get food. We had talked about not knowing what is was, but decided it was best if we listened to the doctors and didn’t google it. Unfortunately my willpower is embarrassingly awful and the minute my friend stepped out I grabbed my smartphone and went to the most reliable source for everything on the internet: Wikipedia. It took about 12 seconds for me to realize that reading about acute compartment syndrome on Wikipedia was a terrible idea. I couldn’t continue reading after the part about the potential for loss of limbs, so I quickly put my phone away and had to pretend that I hadn’t seen this when my friend returned. On a slightly funny note, my friend told me months later that she had left the hospital and immediately also googled compartment syndrome, and also was not revealing to me what she had found. I am glad our combined willpower is that terrible.

I initially went into the hospital on April 27^th and on April 29^th they finally confirmed I had acute compartment syndrome in my lateral leg compartment (after a million and one tests) and proceeded to perform a fasciotomy. What does that mean you may ask? Well, an inflexible fascia surrounds the compartments in our legs, and when pressure builds in the muscle compartment it puts intense pressure on the entire compartment. Eventually the pressure becomes too intense and as a result muscles and subsequent nerves can suffocate and die. In this process a lot of toxins are released into the body, which come in the form of something called creatine kinase (CK). As the muscles die a ton of CK is released into the body, which creates one sick human, or in this case, one sick Chrissy. Fun fact: your normal CK levels range from 30-120, and mine were hitting upwards of 10,000. I take back the part where I just called that a fun fact. It was actually very opposite of fun.

On the morning of April 30^th the surgeon came in to give me the unfortunate news from my surgery. As I sat alone in the hospital room he explained to me what he saw when he opened my compartment. He expected the muscles to bulge out of the compartment, but instead there was no response. He would wait to see if they were stunned by the trauma that had occurred, but only had a small time frame to ensure I did not lose my leg with the toxins that were being pumped to the rest of my body. I remember sitting stunned with that news and not sure how all of this could even be possible. Seventy-two hours before this I had been hiking through the Sunshine Coast Trail, and within a few days things had drastically changed and the doctor had just left me to think about what life would be like without some of my leg muscles. How was this even happening?

I had been scheduled for surgery for the next day so I had only over a day to contemplate this shocking news, and pray that my muscles could be saved. Leading up to surgery on May 1^st I became very sick and was put into isolation. The nurses didn’t think that I would be able to go to surgery anymore, but the surgeon knew the surgery needed to happen. I should have known ahead of time that the sickness was a good indication that my body was harboring dead muscles that needed to be removed. Going to surgery on any normal occasion isn’t the best, but when you add a fever of 105 and no strength to even move yourself from the bed to the operating table, there are other things, such as dying, that would seem far superior to going into surgery. Needless to say, this was one of the lowest days in the process and my body felt like it was shutting down. I didn’t have a ton of time to consider what was coming and honestly just wanted to be in surgery so I could be on the road to recovery and out of pain.

I will never forget the look on the nurse’s face when I asked her if she could tell me what happened as I was in recovery from surgery. She put her hand on my hand and looked at me, like a mother looking at her daughter. Before words could even come out of her mouth, I could read the look on her face and knew what was coming. I started to cry and tears welled up in her eyes as she began to cry with me, before even telling me anything. The news at that point was inevitable: my muscles didn’t survive. Eventually she let me know that they had to remove all the muscles in my lateral compartment, there was damage in my anterior compartment and my nerves were also not responding. I think back on this moment, and although that nurse delivered some of the worst news through this process, she was such a kind and compassionate soul who helped to ease the bad news. God knew she was the nurse that needed to be there in that moment to comfort me as I received the news I had been trying my hardest to prepare for going into surgery.

The following months came with so much processing. From questions of what I would be able to do to when I would be able to be back to normal life activities. Would I be able to walk? Had I just gone on my last hike? How much of my identity was built around the things I do rather than who I am? Each day required so much mental strength just to accept the new reality. I don’t have my muscles. I can’t do anything but accept this and do what I can for maximal recovery and the best new life I can imagine. But what does this new life look like? What will I be able to do? These were the toughest questions and the toughest ones for the doctors to answer. A lot of the time the doctors and surgeons I would see would look sad when they told me that unfortunately some things may have to change, and I will still be able to do activities in time, but I will have balance issues and will require a leg brace. I was told I would have drop foot, and I could do activities that did not require a lot of balance, but I could always use a cane if I wanted to try things. This was tough stuff to chew on. Yes, I would be able to do activities. Yes, I would be able to walk. But knowing that all of my favourite outdoor activities would be off the table broke my heart a little bit.

In the months to come, there was miraculous healing that shattered the beliefs that the doctors had for me. I do not have drop foot, and also do not depend on the brace anymore, and this happened after only a few short months. To this day I go to doctors and surgeons and love seeing their face as they read my chart and then are shocked at what I am able to do. No, my foot does not function normally. No, I don’t have any feeling in my leg or foot to this day. Yes, I do have balance issues. But all of that is so minimal when I think of the things that I AM able to do. I do not have to use a brace, and no longer have drop foot. This winter I even strapped on skates and challenged myself to an activity that is centered on balance. The initial try was comical, but also a realization that becoming accustom to my new [dis]abilities may involve a tough adjustment period. The journey is certainly not all hugely successful moments, and there is a ton of frustration. Seeing what you were able to do before, and knowing that the smallest activities are now equivalent to climbing a mountain is frustrating. Really frustrating. Fortunately, I’ve always thrived with a good challenge, and on my good days I choose to see new activities as such. My goals may seem much smaller, but the accomplishment is still grand in comparison. I went rock climbing a couple months ago, and despite being unable to do much at all, it was a significant moment of trying something and being alright with failing because I had tried.

Initially every recovery effort was focused on the physical and the only thing that got me through each day was compartmentalizing my brain and experience as a coping mechanism of sorts. Each day needed to be dealt with separately and this is how life went on for many months. Eventually the emotional processing of everything started to take precedence, and this has been much tougher than the initial physical struggles. I felt like everything physically was progressing and moving forward, and I was excited to finally get back to doing physical activities that I had the capacity to do. As I began to be able to do more physically and could finally ride my bike and be active again, I started to face a completely new hurdle. In July, only a couple months since compartment syndrome came to visit and change my life entirely, I woke up one morning and lost vision in one of my eyes. This was more terrifying than anything I had experienced through all the recent trials, and began a whole new journey while simultaneously still dealing with the repercussions of losing my muscles. For months I went without vision in one of my eyes and started my master’s during all of this. Being a full time student, reading was something I was supposed to do a lot of, and would leave me with a headache after about three minutes. I had surgery in October during the middle of my semester and for a few weeks after that my vision worsened before it became slightly better.

The first semester of my master’s came with a lot of adjustment and hurdles I did not foresee on top of the unknown workload and normal adjustments to the academic life again. I finished my first semester of my master’s and felt like I got hit by a truck with the impact of everything piling up finally having room to be processed. After 7 months of daily pain and a rollercoaster of emotions, I was tired. I finally had a chance to breathe, but this also meant time to think about all that was going on in my life. I thought that sorting through all of this would take some time, but I did not know that five months later I would still be trying to get my feet back on the ground and feel like everything has finally stopped spinning. The reality is that these past months have been really hard and continue to be hard. When I felt like I already couldn’t breathe from everything that was going on, there was always something more to be added to my plate. In January, after months of abnormal levels of pain in my other leg, I was finally diagnosed with compartment syndrome in my other leg. This time it is chronic but in need of surgery soon to stop it from progressing to acute. I am definitely thankful this case has been caught before it is acute, but also very ready to be done with surgery and once again on the road to recovery.

So where does this leave me exactly one year after getting compartment syndrome? That is a good question, and I guess I wished it could be a much happier place with many more achievements under my belt. Progression is beautiful, but when there are stagnant periods and alternate hurdles coming alongside the initial tough road, it is frustrating and difficult. The other day I sat in front of the dryer at the laundromat and watched mesmerized as a coloured sock tossed and turned through the repetitive drying cycle. As any normal person does, I suddenly pictured myself as that poor sock and realized that I could oddly relate. I sometimes feel like my life is flipping upside down, and I am continually being strewn around with no hope of stopping. In the moment it seems like nothing is ever going to stop and life is too much to handle. But I realized this: in the laundromat I was on the outside and knew the truth; I knew the dryer would stop and the tumultuous ride that my poor pink sock was on would eventually come to an end. As an outsider with a different insight on the situation, I was able to see something different and be less stressed about the awful situation that my poor sock was in. Just as I was on the outside in this situation, I know that there are people in my life who can see my life as an outsider with hope for my future. In the moment I am stuck being flung around, tossed and turned and repeatedly beaten down with no end in sight, but I need to rely on others who can see things differently for me right now. 

So, at the end of a year I am shamelessly asking for encouragement. I probably have never needed encouragement more than now in my life, and would appreciate if you would like to pray for me. I am questioning God in all of this, but know that this is where I need others to intercede on my behalf because I simply don’t have the strength to do it anymore. I want to cling on with hope but know that I am being blinded by circumstances and am having trouble seeing outside of them. If you have made it to the end of this, thank you for taking the time to read this and allowing me to use writing as a form of therapy to process this past year.