The Fall

Picture an Emergency room in Irvine, California: Hoag Medical Center, a huge complex of hospitals, clinics, offices, and parking garages. New construction erupts from the ground in all directions. Hundreds of millions of dollars invested in real estate. All this clean glass, metal, and concrete exudes cost and confidence, practically shouts, “We are Hoag, and we are healthcare.” We passed Kaiser Permanente and Humana on the way here, UC-Irvine is down the road. Healthcare (or maybe it’s Sickcare) is big business in Orange County.

It’s been more than three hours since I fell on the ice, attempting a turn at near full speed to skate backwards so I could watch my 5 and 6 year old granddaughters skating behind me. Had I spent more than a few seconds thinking it through in advance, I might have factored in two relevant facts (despite my history as a recreational skater): I hadn’t skated in more than 20 years, and I was on rented skates with no real edges.

Our first hour had been okay. The arena was crowded with southern Californians trying to capture a bit of the Christmas spirit. “Teach us how to push and glide,” Isla begged from my right side. “Am I doing it?” Julianna skates slipped in every direction like a real-life cartoon character. I held their hands tight in mine, willing them to stay up, to experience a bit of fun and success in this new-to-them endeavor.

Then we cleared the arena to watch the Zamboni smooth the ice. I was excited to get back out there, to skate with some speed. The crowd was thinning, and the girls each had their own plastic seal to push. I skated out in front of them, then turned to watch their progress. Of course, I remembered how to skate backwards. Muscle-memory is real.

Boom! My right hand hit the ice with a palpable crunch and audible crack. Immediate tingling and numbness raced to my fingertips. My fingers sloped down at an angle away from my thumb, and my wrist looked like a rollercoaster. I scooped up my right hand with my left and skated off the ice. “I’m sure I broke it,” I told those who asked. I recalled a similar incident falling off the uneven parallel bars as a 6^th grader. I found a bench to sit down so I wouldn’t pass out as pain made itself known.

Luckily, help was speedy. An arena employee brought chemical ice packs and adhesive tape, and packed some extras in my pockets. A friend helped me get out of skates, laced up my boots, and brought me to urgent care while another arranged for the girls to go home with friends.

Paul and Susie met me at Urgent Care where an x-ray confirmed the break. The doctor was kind and certain. “See this gap,” she said, pointing to a large, blank space just beneath my thumb. The distal radial head is somewhere down here.” She pointed to a vague white mass a few inches away. You’ll need to go to the ER to have it set, and you’ll be able to see Dr. Gittings on Friday to schedule surgery.”

“Surgery? Oh, no. That is not good.”

“It’s a bad break,” she said. “I’m so sorry this happened two days before Christmas.”

Susie drove us to the ER, easily navigating the complex where she works as a physical therapist. I was thankful for the extra ice and swapped out the packs as we waited.

We were moved to a separate room within the Emergency Department after another x-ray. A handsome young doctor introduced himself. “I’m Dr. Endo. I’m sorry this happened to you. We can hang your arm and give you some numbing medicine, but I recommend the ketamine.”

“Ketamine,” I said. “Isn’t that a drug used for guided spiritual journeys?”

He motioned to the hanging Chinese finger traps and eight pounds of weight to load my arm. “We could try this to reduce the fracture, but it’s slow and comes with no guarantee. With the ketamine, you might still feel the reduction, but you won’t remember a thing.”

Ok, Let’s try it. I’d had enough pain and was game for a trip.

Medical staff crowded around my bed in the middle of the tiny cubicle. Dr. Endo on my left was ready to administer ketamine. By his side, a respiratory therapist was assigned to monitor my breathing. Then came the x-ray tech with her portable machine. The PA on my right was seated and ready to set the broken forearm while a medical technician measured the soft white splinting material. Finally, Crystal, the nurse, stood at a computer screen mounted like a robot to monitor my heartrate and oxygen saturation. Susie waited outside, prepared to capture all the activity I was going to forget. Paul moved to the waiting room to avoid fainting.

The PA nodded around the room. “Are we ready?”

“Good thoughts, everyone,” I said. “Please stay positive, 100% good thoughts.”

I watched Dr. Endo draw 70 ccs into a syringe and apply the tip to the IV.

“This is very fast acting,” he said.

The room went dark, but only briefly.

My eyes were closed, but I woke to a feeling of weightlessness and space...

Color surrounded me from all directions: pinks and white in geometric shapes and swirls. Everything was in motion and still at the same time. I was aware of peace and limitless energy. There was music, but no sound, light, but no source. “It’s a pink tunnel of love,” I thought or said, but I had no voice, no lungs, no throat with which to make sounds. I existed but without a body. I was in a field of pure energy, no physical sensation at all. I floated with effortless ease. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Bliss.

Then I became aware of a woman on a bed below me. I felt far, far away and yet incredibly close. Like I was watching the scene through gauze, but I had no eyes to see nor ears to hear what was happening. Other beings moved around her. “That poor, poor woman,” I thought. “She has such a long road ahead of her.”

The beings hovered around her, prodded and stretched her arm. It looked painful, but what did I know of pain? What did I know of bodies? I thought I heard howling, ‘Aww, aww, aww-oooo!’ but what did I know of sound, or thought, or hearing? Someone might have said something like, ‘Another dose of ketamine,’ but it came from deep underwater like slow bubbles rising to the surface. What is ketamine anyway?

…I swirled back into the tunnel of love, love, love….

…Space. Light. Movement. Stillness...

...Weightless peace and quiet...

...Love went on and on and on for infinity...

...Endless, fascinating, constant motion and change...

...No body. No thought. No words. No sound...

...I could stay here forever...

...Time did not exist…

Then, I heard the beep, beep, beep, beep of a monitor. Voices, more distinct, somehow familiar.

“She’s coming back.”

“Crystal, is that you?” I ask.

“Yes, it’s me.”

My eyes blinked open to see my nurse standing at the monitor. Susie and Paul sat in chairs beside the bed. “I was in a pink tunnel of love,” I told them.

“We heard,” they laughed. “You told us all about it.”

“It was incredible….”

Was I really forming words with my mouth?

Did I even want to come back?

How can I hold onto my memories of that place?

How to hold onto that energy of peace and quiet?

The weightless sensation of ease, of bliss?

I took a breath.

Wait, I have lungs?

The blanket rose with my inhale.

Would I collapse under its weight?

No, the bed held me. A body supported by a mattress, a metal frame.

Legs stretched out under the blanket, heavy against the bed.

Wait, I have legs?

Hiking boots poked out from the end of the blanket.

Wait, I have shoes?

Awe. Amazement. Shock.

Then, there were feet inside of shoes, legs inside of pants, a heart beating, blood pumping.

How is it that I have a body?

A head, heavy on a pillow, a neck that turns

Shoulders, and then arms,

one arm that moves,

The other..

a brick, a concrete block, enlarged and encased in an ace-wrapped splint.

The realization.

Wait. That was me.

Oh, no. That was me….

It’s my arm that is broken.

Then the transition was complete – gone was the world of no body. I landed like a 747, thudding heavily, fully and completely in a broken body. Reality settled around me like water; I sank into it. Breath in my body, my body on the bed, the bed in a hospital, the hospital on earth. This is also real.

“If that was a preview of death,” I smiled. “We have nothing to fear.”

Crystal spoke up. “Ketamine is my favorite drug to give to patients,” she told us. “They always wake up happy, and they say the most amazing things.”

“It was incredible,” I said again, trying to recapture the weightlessness, the freedom, the infinite spaciousness of no-body. “I need to remember this.”

Gravity pulled on me. The weight of my legs, my back, my head, neck and arms. I felt myself supported, and thankful for modern western medicine even if it is mostly “sickcare.”

I remembered the gift of a body, the miracle of a body that breathes, of a heart that beats, the capacity to laugh and cry. A body with skin that feels texture and temperature, a brain that makes sense of light and sound and taste. A body with the astounding ability to move and touch and connect.

And, yes, a body that feels pain

and love

and gratitude

for whatever length of time we get in our

very finite bodies.

---

Postscript:

Today is seven weeks since the fall, 6 weeks post-surgery. The initial weeks of pain and immobilization were difficult. I was awkward using my nondominant hand to eat, write, type, and brush my hair and teeth. I was lucky to be surrounded by the love and care of family. Paul helped me dress and shower. He opened jars and did all the cooking, driving and shopping. He fed and watered the chickens every day through weeks of freezing cold. He walked the dog, and put the cat out every night. He washed my hair and cut my food. More than anything, with his trademark good humor, he tolerated my particular and specific instructions about how to do the things I couldn’t do. Thank you, Paul!

Three weeks marked a turning point when I could remove the brace to begin range-of-motion exercise and was greeted with noticeable improvement every day. I started back to my daily yoga practice with a block under my forearm for planks and table pose, forearms on the mat for dolphin instead of down dog. I’ve been buoyed by community and connection throughout. Others who had experienced something similar, forged the path ahead of me, shared their wisdom, and gave me hope. This, too, will pass away. This, too, will change and transform. It is a gift to have the time and space to notice.