I quietly sat on the x-ray table, lead vest heavy across my belly and spotlight aimed at my troublesome right knee. The tech making polite conversation as she gave me directions, "Turn this way, just a bit," and "Hold this up. Now, be very still."
I silently obeyed, holding my breath as she stepped behind the window and snapped the shot. As still as I was, my mind careened around all the possibilities. Another injury.
It hadn't been but a few months since I was sitting in that very room with a similar limb affliction; one right shoulder, overworked and under-rested. At least this time, there was actually an identifiable incident. I had been reaching for a kettle bell mid-workout, between the running and the squatting. I hadn't even touched that darn bell yet. I merely stepped and reached for it, twisting in just the right way. Or I suppose I should say, "just the wrong way," as there I sat. It's silly really, and believe me, I felt the ridiculousness of it all in telling the doctor as he examined my angry knee.
I listened intently as he went over the diagnosis; a simple sprained knee to be cared for with a brace, some rest, and anti-inflammatories. But there was more. There were "abnormalities" visible on the x-rays. Well, who doesn't love to hear a doctor say that lovely fear-mongering word- "abnormalities?" He explained the existence of what appeared to be some sort of calcification on what he felt was a knee far too young to allow such a presence. I was left with a promised follow-up from the radiologist, and a possible orthopedic referral, dependent upon their closer examination of the x-rays. Of course, I don't remember the exact details of his medical monologue. It's funny how I always believe I will remember every word, but as soon as I step out of the office, my brain is wiped clean with the exception of all the questions I wished I had thought to ask.
In the few hours that have passed since the appointment, I've teetered back and forth between a high-spirited optimism and plan for a quick recovery, and a disheartening pessimism of being held back from the activities I love for any length of time.
It's a minor injury. No surgery required. What a relief!
Minor though it may be, it will still keep me from my routine. Workouts are my sanity, my remedy for more than just a calorie burn and muscle toning.
Yes, but five days' rest is nothing. And then I'll be back at it, rebuilding my strength slowly, smartly, but surely.
Unless this calcification business is more. Then what?
Then, I'll work with it, and stop trying to fight against it. I can accept my knees never permitting an inverted lotus pose.
Ugh... I was planning to start my YTT this week. Lotus pose? I can't even do child's pose right now.
But, my body needs rest. I'll rest it, and then start next week. That's the benefit of choosing a program which allows practice and study in my own time.
And round and round I go. No, really... I am this insane.
In the end, all I could think was how maybe I've made a mountain of this minuscule thing. A minor injury. I've allowed it to make me feel broken. I don't like feeling broken. I don't care for exposing any fleck of my fragility, physical or otherwise, though I am quite aware of each flecks existence.
The truth is, my fear isn't about this injury or its subsequent recovery. It gives life to a much more personal and emotional issue deeply rooted and boldly growing from old scars split wide open by setbacks like this. Clearly, they are wounds that never really healed.
Many, many years ago, I gave up far too much far too easily, and it haunts me still.
One memory rubbed raw and resurfacing most recently, is that of my rather brief stint in the Air Force; four weeks of boot camp training followed by two months of "Medical Hold," only to be sent home for migraines. This is a story many friends and family know, though I've always told it differently than it actually happened.
The basics are the same. I had been aimlessly floundering after the chaos of life led me down an unplanned path. In an attempt to pull myself out of the muck and find any sort of purpose, I proudly joined the U.S. Air Force. The day after Christmas in 2000, I traveled to San Antonio's Lackland Air Force Base from Houston. I missed the initial TI verbal assault on the incoming buses, courtesy of a day long paperwork delay, but I was settled into my flight with all the usual "pleasantries" by the 27th. I learned quickly and became the perfect little wall-flower, despite having the first bed just outside of the Sergeant's office and an easy target for a last name. "Homer" had brought me nothing but grief since The Simpsons' debut in the fifth grade. Fortunately for me, it went unnoticed amongst the 59 other girls in my flight. By week 4, I thought I was golden, but the changes in diet, exercise, and sleep began to take their toll, and my occasional pre-Air Force migraines struck with a vengeance. It wasn't ever long after Reveille that a daily monster would take hold of my poor pounding head. I couldn't think straight, and suddenly "the perfect little wallflower" was missing marching calls and standing out like a cactus in the bare desert. It wasn't pretty, and no one thanked me for the numerous extra "motivational push-ups" we were having to do in penance for my errors alone. After several days in a row of brain torture and worry, I finally requested to go to medical call. The clinic doctor granted me a referral to the neurologist and an unwanted ticket to leave my flight for the "Medical Hold" Squadron until a diagnosis could be made and everything sorted out. With this, I found my boot camp graduation delayed and my reserved spot at Shepherd AFB for my next phase of training given to another recruit, though I wasn't fully aware of it at the time. Once again, my life's plans were shaken.
My first neurology appointment offered a migraine diagnosis, only pending MRI results to rule out worse possibilities. And so my waiting began- waiting on appointments, waiting on paperwork. Just a whole lot of "hurry up and wait."
A few weeks later, while making my way by bus to the base hospital, Wilford Hall, for my MRI and follow-up appointments, I passed the marching grounds where graduation preparations were in order. My breath hitched. It was my original flight's graduation day. My graduation day... but not. I maintained the military bearing as I was expected to display, but my heart broke right there on that shuttle bus as I watched the graduating flights march to the field in their dress blues- the uniform I was measured for, but never received.
It is here where the difference in the story I allowed people to believe and the actual truth diverge.
Perhaps it was riding on the emotional low of that bus ride when I felt my decision was made. At my appointment that day, the neurologist made the official diagnosis and explained that migraines were typically a "no-go" for acceptance into the military. He was, however, willing to make an effort to make a case for me to return to normal training along with a prescription to help ease the headaches. The choice was mine. Of course, I had certain anxieties about Warrior Week and other aspects of returning to training, but I truly couldn't see past those graduating flights marching all over my altered dreams to even consider amending the timeline to still reach my goals. At that moment, I just wanted to go home.
And so, in the great disappointment of my imagined failure, I chose to truly fail by asking that doctor to send me home.
It took another 8 weeks for the paperwork to be properly gathered, but the decision had already been set into motion. By the time I was reasonable enough to fully comprehend what I had done, it was too late. I told my family and friends that I wasn't given a choice, a fact most are reading for the first time only now. The shame of disappointing them yet again with the truth of my ever-wavering resolve was too much to bear. I couldn't shake my adopted role as a quitter, even if only I knew the truth, and it was my own fault.
I let that role rule me for decades, always letting that girl in the mirror forever harp on how I never finished anything I started. So many times, I proved her right. Then, little by little, I learned how to be louder and stronger than she was, taking one goal at a time, however small, and celebrating the hell out of it.
That nagging reflection is gone, but she is sadly not forgotten. It is her ghost, her shadow I fear in moments of sprained knees and slightly-delayed yoga teacher training, knowing old habits are so easily resurrected. I might be 36, but apparently 21 year old versions of myself still rattle me.
Still, I won't quit. Broken, sprained, calcified, torn, delayed... whatever. I'll rest. I'll get back up. I'll continue moving forward, ever wiser, ever better.
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