Slash, Burn, Return

Except for Marty McFly, no one has yet demonstrated the ability to travel back and forth in time. As I continue to heal from my broken ankle, more than once, I've wished I could rewind the tape that led up to the fall from my bike. Come to find out, ankles heal at a turtle's pace. Seven months into my long trek back to walking, coulda-woulda-should-regrets still abound. As in any crisis, there's the both/and problem: grisly aspects share the playing field with propitious graces. 

Michael Stipe puts a fine point on this puzzle in one of my all-time R.E.M. favorite songs, It's the End of the World as You Know It. Even if you've heard it lately, it's always worth another listen. From the start, the song bombards listeners with an unrelenting string of images that capture the hideousness of life when routines end abruptly and awfully: earthquakes, birds and snakes, hurricanes, a clattering ladder, fear of heights, combat sites, a menacing wire in the fire, the heat of furies breathing down your neck. And, of course, there's the repeated assurance that despite these horrors, the lyricist feels fine. That compelling, even comforting coda raises the perennial question of how people can cope and be okay with suffering.

And so it's been during my time on the mend that I still feel both sides of life's double-edged sword. I wasn't wearing my helmet but had a glorious bike ride, and my head was uninjured. I didn't have my cell phone, but a man drove by to assist and told Jim to come and help me. I spent three days in the hospital but received continuous, skilled, heartfelt nursing care. I had a lot of pain but plenty of painkillers. Being bedridden was balanced with bouquets, candy, socks, books, creams, cards, and visits. I was shocked and fearful but also enjoyed Zoom and phone visits that offered continual consolation and support. People brought meals. Heck, we even got some chicken soup sent through the mail. For eight weeks, I was on non-weight-bearing status, and initially, I couldn't use the toilet without help. Ask me how much fun it was calling Jim for help when I had to pee in the middle of the night. And, every time, there he was, uncomplaining and standing nearby. 

Misery loves company, and beneath the seductive, pop tempo of R.E.M.'s song, the chorus offers redemptive clues. For sure, the aftermath of an accident can cause emotional havoc. Yet, listeners are encouraged to save and serve themselves amid fearful questions that burn. I walk for daily exercise, and now I can't even take a step? I knew my tires were unfit for dirt roads; how could I have been so stupid? As days went by, pain management became a ring of hell that spewed the threat of addiction. And there's vulnerability as I come to terms with my dependence on others for meals, clean clothes, and almost every daily need. 

Stipe and his fellow lyricists concur. Churn, I did, and my heart bled. I spouted anger and frustration; I brooded and complained. Sometimes, the only thing that served was to ride it out with a good cry to lament the end of my active, independent world. The accident forced me over the threshold to a sedentary life with lots of time alone, an idea played up in the call-and-response sequence at the song's close. The line I had some time alone morphs into time I had some time alone. The way it echoes sixteen times before the song ends becomes a hyperbolic repetition that drives home a point, a kind of persuasion. Yes, catastrophic events happen that end the world as you know it. Don't be afraid of the silence there; it's there to coax you into something new. 

Eventually, the flames of shock and regret die down; acceptance wings out of the ashes and does away with the need to escape into McFly-like fantasies of the past or future. Indeed, mistakes can be a good thing. They lead us to what we don't expect. Before my fall, I'd walk 3 to 5 miles several times a week. I cooked, cleaned, gardened, biked, swam, and ran errands in between my active work life. I'm 76; I've been doing these things well and on auto-pilot for a long time. 

New demands forced me to be more alert in the name of safety; each hopping movement required my hyper-focused attention. A simple trip to the bathroom became a slowed-down meditation. I'll spare the details on what I had to do to shower, but Eckhart Tolle would be proud. Without my previous daily routines, each day became a straightaway of possibilities, albeit with limitations. Forced acquiescence is the term I've coined to refer to my situation. The accident forced me to downshift. I had ample time to write and time to sink more deeply into rich and meaningful conversations. I felt more open, attuned to, and grateful to, and with the people I love. Little things grew in importance. Squirrels, birds, sunshine, sky, wind, water, you name it out my window; all of nature has been restored in my heart and mind to its proper stature for deserving wonder. It was my first real challenge with physical suffering, and I now have a much keener appreciation for what people go through.

I wouldn't wish my slash-and-burn experience on anyone. I’ve certainly felt beat up by life these past seven months. There were sharp edges, yes, but it didn't break me. Most significantly, I've learned more about the mystery that misery can be a giftbearer. Being laid up with my broken ankle became a rich time to recollect, prioritize, and grow. The world didn't end, and now that I've returned more to normal? I have to admit it, I do feel fine.