Into the Blue: Oh, Dear
Oh, dear
In the midst of a long rally at the baseline, I stepped into hit the ball, slipped, and heard a loud "POP," followed by an inexplicable sensation in my lower leg- the pain took a moment to register. The ball came back to my side of the court, but I remained where I was, in disbelief:
"Uh oh," I said.
"I heard the string break," said one of my opponents, "do you have another racket?"
"It wasn't my racket," I explained, "it was my calf!"
"Oh, dear."
Twenty-four hours later, clad in a compression sock, I hobbled from my car to the grocery store; a woman, 20 or 30 years my senior, walking out of the grocery store (with a spring in her step I couldn’t help but be envious of) took note of my imbalanced gait and neon yellow sock. She shook her head, and said:
“Oh, dear.”
The tender pair of words is the goldilocks response to my situation. The partnership of “oh” and “dear,” held together by a gentle pause, expresses just the right amount of surprise, dismay, and disappointment, and just the right amount of empathy, compassion, and pity. To be clear, in the scheme of life, my torn calf is not a big deal: the pain is minimal, and it will heal. But suffering any injury or ailment is like throwing a monkey wrench into a well-oiled machine.
Routines are how we structure our time—how we create some semblance of control. Every day, we set alarms, brush our teeth, buckle our seatbelts, eat three meals, exercise, go to work, do our laundry, clean our house, take the dog for a walk, kiss our children goodnight... We color these routines with daily prayers and practices, weekly social engagements, monthly rituals, travel, and annual traditions. And when our ability to follow through with our plans is abruptly taken away, we can find ourselves unmoored.
After the grocery store, I wondered what to do next. I headed North, towards home. Driving, I surprised myself and began to cry.
Georgia, what is going on? You know better than to cry over this! Injuries are part of life.
And yet, all I could do was cry harder. But I wasn’t thinking about my calf; I was thinking about Pip’s blue eyes when he smiles, the fullness of Phoebe’s cheek when they laugh, and the sound of Roo’s voice when I lean into his chest. I ached for the three of them, fiercely. The kids’ camp and Roo’s office seemed eerily far away. I felt tight, on the precipice of something unnamable.
The “POP” pricked a pinhole in the bubble of denial we house ourselves in. Injuries, even the minor ones, brush us up against the inescapable truth: no matter how hard we plan, practice, love, work, pray, bargain, study, analyze, we have no control over what comes next. Things can change in an instant. My torn calf is a microdose of this harsh reality. The selfish part of me is grieving my summer plans, but a deeper part is stomaching the level of uncertainty we build our lives upon.
In our ruptured states, we are forced to pause—to rest—to contemplate; there’s no choice but to tread in the uncertainty. At first, it seemed I had one of two options: to resist or to surrender. I go and back forth. One moment, I am like a goddess, lying on a daybed, icing and resting, accepting the change of plans and offers to help. Another moment, I’m restless, hobbling to the edge of the ocean, ready to swim to England…until I think better of it.
One friend suggested I might be a “super healer.” This struck a chord. Suddenly, weaving together strands of hope and faith occurred to me as a strong hand to play in the face of uncertainty. I will not dread the uncertainty of healing—of how long my recovery time will be; instead, I will hope for super healing. WebMD be damned! I will have faith in my authenticity, and all the choices I made up to this very moment—who was I practicing for if not this future version of myself? Nor will I dread the uncertainty of living without my carefully curated summer routine; instead, I will wonder what else is possible in the newly vacant spaces. I will have faith that there are greater forces at play than I am aware of driving the currents of uncertainty beneath me. Perhaps they are even rooting for me…perhaps, in cohorts with my body, they are ensuring I slow down and pay attention to something I can’t name yet. Until I can (or at least until I can play tennis again) I am open to what will unfold without the full use of my left leg! More writing? More books read? Something unimaginable? Truly, the possibilities are endless.
As I settle into and embrace convalescence, I leave you with one final turn: I’ve just been summoned to grand jury duty for three weeks next month.
“Oh, dear.”
As always, thank you for reading.