And Yet There Were Moments
It's only been three months, but it feels more like three years. At my last update, I was ecstatic that I'd finally gotten the call to go to Japan. And I was training for my impending 100 mile endurance bike tour. Things were looking up. But a lot has happened since then, and I'm just happy to be alive.
I say that because I had yet another brush with death. That makes twice in the past 4 years, although I would have taken another bizarre and potentially heart-stopping virus (last time it was myocarditis) over this experience. About a week after my last post, I was on a final training ride - one last push before I took a week off before the 100 mile tour. It was a rather nice August evening, and most of the ride was fairly standard - I chose a familiar route because it has a few fantastic flat sections where I can really put power down and feel like I'm flying. It's also a great way to push my lungs and heart for an extended period of time - something I'm always keen to do. The ride was winding down as I made my way back home, and I waited at a T-intersection for my turn to cross and reach the other side of the bike path.
When my pedestrian light turned green, I went. And so did some of the cars at the opposite end. And some of the drivers did not acknowledge me.
Not until one struck me. I'm not sure how fast their car was going. Maybe 30mph, at a guess. I saw it approach about a half second before impact, and thought to myself, "really?" Then there was a sickening, dull thud.
Then I was on the floor. The car struck my left side as I crossed on my bike, but past that I'm not sure of all the details. I know I flew out of my clipped pedals, rotated, and went through its windshield with the back of my right shoulder. Then I presumably rolled back down and hit the pavement. My head hit something somewhere as well, judging by the dents and cracks the helmet has. But I'm not sure what happened to it exactly. Initially, there was no pain.
Someone asked me if I was okay, as if that wasn't a completely absurd question in the moment. But I was lucid enough to have that thought, which was a plus. I was breathing quickly and my heart was racing, but I knew I was alive, at least. I was scared to move or even open my eyes, though. For all I knew, I'd just lost a limb or something.
Soon after, EMS showed up and asked my to wiggle my fingers and feet. Still didn't feel much, at the time. It wasn't until they picked me up and loaded me on a stretcher that the shock wore off, and I could finally feelt my shoulder again. Oh how I wished the shock would come back. It was not a fun ride to the hospital, as I became acutely aware of every inconsistency in the road.
Originally the hospital thought my shoulder was merely dislocated, which is painful but remedied simply enough. However, a full examination by an orthopedic revealed that my shoulder was actually severely separated. There are grades to this kind of injury, but I won't bore anyone with those details. Suffice it to say that the impact destroyed three of my tendons and one of my bones was jutting out. It could only be resolved with surgery.
About 3 weeks later, I went in for surgery, prepared in one sense: I knew what the procedure involved, what recovery would be like, and that it was all necessary to my well-being. But surgery terrifies me, so in another sense I could never be truly ready. Long story short, the operation was performed and I woke up, delirious. Thank god I had people to help me get home. And to help me re-adjust over the next week, because it was absolute hell.
I didn't eat for almost three days. Combine that with all of the anesthesia and pain medication running through me and I could barely tell I was alive half the time. When I was awake, I felt like I was in some kind of fever dream. When I was asleep - when I could sleep - I could not rest. Whether it was the medicine or my anxiety, my brain would not keep calm. I would shake. I would sweat. I would see shapes, colors, figures, lights. Nightmares. Voices. And then I'd wake up screaming, in a cold sweat. I was terrified. And I couldn't move, since my arms was pretty much taped to my body. Even if it wasn't, I had no strength. I couldn't even get out of a chair without help. This went on for about three days, until I was able to bear even the thought of food. I had a handful of crackers and went back to sleep, if you could call what I've described sleep. Any time I took the pain medication - some kind of opiate-based shit - I experienced the aformentioned nightmares, so I wasn't exactly a fan. They didn't do much for my appetite, either.
It wasn't until day 5 post-surgery that I was able to have something substantial: some chicken and a few eggs for strength. With some help, I got out of my chair and made it up the stairs. I shuffled around the house as much as I could, as often as I could, for the next two days. About a week post-surgery, I was able to move around on my own, mostly. I still lacked strength, but it was a start at least. I'd be in a sling for the next ten weeks. It was...an adjustment.
To say it was frustrating would be grossly underselling it. I was barely able to move the arm at first, and even when I was able to move it, I was in severe pain. Nothing felt right. Even the simplest thing, like grasping a spoon, had to be done with my other arm. In my mind, I may as well have only had one arm. I felt like a broken man. Admittedly, there were more than a few nights that I almost cried myself to sleep. Instead, I just cried a few times while I was awake. Whether it was from the pain, the emotional distress, or some combination of the two...I can't say.
It became increasingly difficult to get up in the morning, to bother even wanting to wake up. I'd finally gotten some good news for a change and just like that, I nearly died. Again. And now I was lying in bed, half-wishing I had.
Things got better when I was cleared for therapy about a month later. It gave me something to be positive about, for a change. The pain had settled slightly, but my shoulder felt like it was filled with stone. Therapy began, and at first I could barely move my arm away from my body, and I couldn't hold any weight. Now I can hold a small amount of weight, and my flexibilty continues to increase. It's going to be a few more months of hard work to get back to where I used to be, though. Or at least close to it, since the doctors tell me I won't ever really be the same. But then, doctors also told me I'd be limited all my life by asthma yet there I was training for an endurance ride.
As with any other emotion, that positivity fades from time to time. The pain persists. I don't feel like I'm making progress as quickly as I could. I give my body rest but everything seems like it takes more energy out of me than it used to. That just frustrates me more and makes me work harder, which just exhausts me even more. That usually leads to days where I sleep for ten hours. Those usually aren't good days. Good days have been difficult to come by for the last few months, though.
But, if nothing else, I am alive. Whether that's thanks to timing, resilience, or dumb luck, I still have a place on this Earth. Parts of me are damaged but they will be repaired. My spirit may be hurting, but it's still here. There will come a day when I'm back to being me. There has to be.
Because if there isn't, then I may as well have died that day. And I refuse to go out that way.