Two years. I don’t know why some dates can be so hard, but
tomorrow (April 27th) 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.
