15/03/2020
MOVEMENT. Nothing happens without it. Think about all that you do on a daily basis; getting out of bed, taking a shower, accomplishing physical and mental tasks all day, every day, every minute and every second. It's all about movement.
I was blessed with the ability to move a bit more than the average person. I started gymnastics around the age of 8, and kept it up until my early 20's. I enjoyed the freedom of grace and ease of every muscle in my body until overuse and abuse took it's toll on both shoulders and lumbar spine, forcing me to quit my beloved gymnastics and into physical therapy. Fast forward many years (and odd jobs) later, I chose professions that required constant movement by becoming a massage therapist, fitness and yoga instructor, and personal trainer. Then a near-fatal car accident bought me to a complete halt.
As I continue along my healing journey, many things have come into perspective. First of all, If I hadn't taken care of myself all those years, I don't think I would survived the impact. My beautiful little red car (whom I affectionally called "Old Girl"), looked as though a giant person crumbled her up like a beer can and tossed her away. It's amazing that the only damage I suffered was 2 broken femurs, right ankle, left forearm, 3 ribs, and a little bump on the left side of my head, which was enough to cause moderate vertigo for awhile, and it's also the excuse for my short term memory that I thought was bad before the accident! Even though I'm sure my list injuries seem extensive, I did not suffer internal, brain, or spinal damage. What an absolute miracle!
Thinking back at the beginning of my recovery, I could barely feed myself since my left arm was in a cast and my right hand was sprained and swollen resembling a purple boxing glove. I had external fixaters attached to the outside of both upper legs to stabilize my femurs, and deep breaths caused shooting pains in my right side, along with the sickening "clunking" noise in my ribs if I moved even just a little. My once limber, strong, and capable body was humbled.
As I review my list of injuries, it occurs to me that all that was broken were the parts that served me in the most meaningful ways. My hands were (and will be again) my tools to work as a massage therapist; my broken ribs restricted my lungs that used to take in copious breaths to endure strenuous activity, teach fitness, yoga, and mindful breathing for guided meditation; and my incredibly strong, resilient legs that endured long runs, bursts of explosive plyometrics, held firm and unwavering warrior poses, that rarely fatigued while withstanding tons of lunges and squats, were my tools that propelled me through the peaks and valleys of life.
Despite having having to push through all the pain, sometimes learning all over again is pretty cool. I get excited when I realize that I can bend my knees a little more, or can finally get down and up from the floor (I feel as though I look like I'm playing an awkward game of Twister, but I can do it!). Tackling the stairs was the biggest hurdle, but I was determined not to be carried in and out of the house in my wheelchair, which was terrifying and so inconvenient and possibly dangerous to those I had to ask. Thanks to the encouragement of a particular amazing friend, who came to the house and said "Let's do this", with complete confidence and faith in me, God love her! I stared down the stairs like I was staring down the Grand Canyon, scared out of my wits and sweating stinky bullets. Just going to the bathroom on my own was a big deal. I can write a whole other story about the two weeks that I couldn't "go", and the rib-hurting hilarious texts as I kept my family updated about my on-going poopie saga, and their even funnier advice to "rect-ify" my situation. Maybe that's TMI, but I lost most of my modesty in that hospital room.
Speaking from experience, and I'm sure most of you have experienced this at some point as well, YOUR BODY WOULD BE MORE THAN HAPPY TO STAY RESTRICTED JUST TO PROTECT ITSELF. The body, in it's amazing ability to heal itself, can also screw you in the process if you allow it. I had read somewhere that "there is no progress in complacency", and I will never forget it. If I didn't push beyond my body's protective limitations, or had the knowledge of movement, I wouldn't be walking right now. I admit, just about every move I make is still painful and awkward (especially at the end of the day when exhaustion sets in. Steve says I walk like Fred Sanford, haha!) The best way that I can describe the pain is that it feels like I ran a Marathon that I didn't train for. I have to push through every step, think about every move before I make it. I can't sit down or get up from a chair without making old lady noises because of the achy stiffness in my knees, or get up at night to use the bathroom without worrying about killing myself because one fall could break me like glass. Regardless of the pain and possible danger, it's more dangerous in the long run if I don't MOVE.
The picture I attached was taken maybe about 2 weeks after the accident (I really don't remember that time period too well). That was my first time successfully getting out of bed and into a wheelchair, and despite my smiling face, it was the hardest thing I've ever done. I could barely stand on one leg, which was about one week out of surgery, so the pain was off the charts despite being pumped up with Oxycodone and some other heavy duty pain killer. I couldn't really grasp with my hands to help pull myself up, and my blood pressure kept tanking, which thwarted my very first effort, forcing me back into bed and sobbing with defeat. But ultimately, I did it.
As an educator of movement, I hope that sharing my experience might help someone through their temporary physical limitations. Another thing that propels me forward is the overwhelming love and support from so many amazing people, which in turn makes me strive to be a better person. So many lessons learned and still more to come. This is life, and I am blessed to be here.
Enjoy the day with peace and abundant laughter!
LOVE,
Sandy
