I followed my heart in vain to this magical place where the sky vibrates bright blue every morning and stuns with rainbows and light shows in the evening. My compulsion to see it all filled me with an uncanny energy. I wanted to see every lake, summit, wildflower, sunbeam. I relished the feeling of falling in love. I lay awake in the darkest hours wishing for the sun to come up so I could have another adventure.
I've been reliving the events of the past month, and sorting through the feelings of regret, guilt, confusion, embarrassment and exhaustion that have thwarted any sense of peace that I had anticipated during the 1000 mile journey to my new home.
Father's Day 2016 started out like this.
Filled with anticipation, wearing my new REI tech shirt that Jen gave me as a parting gift. Hair pulled back and ready to kick butt on a mountain trail.
Surrounded by amazing sights and smells, we trekked our way past the large lake near the parking lot, beyond remnants of late spring snow storms, sliding down on our butts when we couldn't trust our footing.
We hiked through snow, mud, and shin-deep streams until the kids couldn't stand it anymore. So we opted to take a shortcut down to the lake's edge. I was wearing a cooler backpack filled with sandwiches and lemonade. When I came upon a muddy patch, my ankle gave out, and the weight of my pack brought me down hard. I heard a pop and crumpled to the ground. Stunned.
The kids all wanted to help. All I could do was sit there with ice on my ankle. I wanted to appear strong for my daughter, so I kept sitting there and smiling, joking that I would eventually stand up and join them. The adults in the group encouraged me to have a beer, and in a panic, it seemed like a perfectly good salve. I sat in the icy mud and tried not to acknowledge the disfiguring injury. I smiled.
A handsome, athletic guy was nearby with his family, and caught wind of what had happened. He offered me 3 ibuprofen and an ace bandage, and a shoulder to lean on so I could join the group at the bottom of the slope. I got tunnel vision, and felt like I would throw up or pass out. I pushed through till I was safely at the bottom. The shock was setting in. Initially I was relieved to rest my foot in the lake water. But the clouds were filling in and I started shivering uncontrollably. Somehow there was a foil blanket in my friend's pack, and I clung to it until we had to make our way back. Two more strangers offered sympathy and a pair of ski poles to help me hike back to the car. Up till this point I hadn't once considered leaving this spot. I was resigned to stay until everything was back to normal. Of course, by this point in my life I should realize that "normal" is a fantasy. Calling for "normal" is as good as calling for my "mommy." The new normal meant dragging my disfigured leg up and down these muddy hills for two miles, in the hopes that I could drive myself back home, peel off my bandages, wash off the muck, and assess the damage.
The bruising stretched all the way around the ankle and down to my toes. I kept it covered with that same ace bandage, and upgraded to a Velcro version. I was in denial to some extent. A friend at home pleaded with me to get a doctor's opinion. I balked, first because of the fact that my insurance was lapsing, and second, because I was afraid of the costs I'd incur. I wasn't prepared to ask questions or demand care of any kind. I just wanted it to get better.
Fast-forward 30 days. The pain has come and gone--and returned, sharper, more focused. I was becoming depressed because my attempts at regaining strength and balance were going nowhere. I was stubbornly trying to return to hiking, denying the discomfort it caused me. Taking photos of my journeys to prove to myself I could still do what I had come to Boulder to do. I had been Googling "ankle injury" and "sprain recovery," but hadn't really considered there could be a fracture. Not until the xray tech excused himself and returned with a wheelchair.
Needless to say, if there was a marathon runner in me, she's on a "break."
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