The fall and the fight
I was in my wheelchair on my usual 5k route. I pushed up hills, down hills… around hills. I was near a college very early in my workout when I saw that I was about to pass a woman on my right. This lady was just a little older than me, so super young, and she had this amazingly full long grey hair. I was, for a moment, rather taken by her and I considered stopping to tell her that her hair was awesome.
I was mid-hesitation, wondering if unsolicited comments about a woman’s appearance might not be the most feminist thing to do, when I made my mistake. This is a mistake that all those who are above 40 will know well.
I turned… while bending over.
My considerable flexibility and musculature, the fact that I could probably bench press a Nissan Micra, are nothing against the unstoppable force that is universal entropy. And my back twanged.
I knew immediately that I was in trouble. The twang was painful in a way that only severe back injuries are. Moving in particular directions caused sudden, considerable pain and spasms, some of which might have been from the injury itself but some were almost certainly a consequence of the pain impulses meeting my existing spinal cord injury due to Multiple Sclerosis. Whenever pain meets a lesion things can get weird fast. Back pain invariably causes my legs to buckle, which creates a fair few problems for walking.
The woman, lovely as she was, noticed me testing my movements in the chair and stopped. She looked at me with an expression clearly questioning whether I was ok. Her pained expression hit my debonair self-concept over the head with a 2x4 of reasonable concern for my well-being. I gestured ‘I’m ok’ to her just before a twinge of pain curled my form and an audible gasp escaped me. She didn’t notice. I exhaled my relief.
I did what anyone would do in this situation. I bit through the pain, got the right music thrumming through my ears, and continued my 5k.
This was… a mistake.
I pushed through the pain to get almost all the way through my workout. I reached the point where I regularly stand and push the chair uphill. I stood, tried to straighten, and realised that the pain buckling my legs made walking virtually impossible. I tried anyway. Each step buckled the load-bearing leg beneath me. Yet I caught myself on the same leg and managed to restore power to it in the split second before a freefall. I got about 100 metres up the hill before I could no longer maintain enough power to support myself. I crumpled into the chair.
A kind woman hurried toward me offering help. She had watched me workout up the hill and told me she wouldn’t be able to do what I’m doing. I refrained from telling her the truth: that she is stronger than she thinks. I declined her offer. I was in full survival mode, and if I had to drag my ass up the hill with my bare hands I would.
I finally managed to reach the plateau. I drifted slowly downhill for a time before I reached the safety of flat paving. I went slow, at walking speed. I was not taking any chances…
I fell.
A poorly maintained paving slab was invisibly jutting above the others by a half-inch or so and my front cam (the small wheel) caught it awkwardly. I was vaguely aware of the wheelchair tumbling, of my knee and hip hitting the ground, of rolling, before I came to a stop on my back.
People came running. A group of girls picked up my chair and offered to help me up. I told them that this happens a lot and I reassured them ‘I’m fine’. A guy ran over and firmly asked what had happened. A car stopped nearby. Someone called an ambulance.
I held my hands up in partial surrender to the fates but more to show that I was not seriously injured. I assured everyone that I was ok, that I could do this, and gradually they all went about their days. Someone handed me my headphones.
I pushed myself onto my knees and tried to rise. My back spasmed. My legs buckled and I couldn’t get enough power through them to lift me. Someone approached to offer help. I declined. The worse the situation became the more resolved I was to manage it independently. That vigilant part of myself drew her sword.
I had to do it on my own.
I pushed myself upright with my hands, forced enough power through my legs to get me to the chair. Its form fit me and I slid into place, held firm and fast.
I continued the last of my workout, a few defiant tears rolled beneath my sunglasses. When I got home my body was a wreck. It took days to be able to walk upright again.
A setback like this feels heartbreaking, like the incredible effort over the past year, the progress, might be lost in a moment. I also recognise that my decisions all made this situation worse. Continuing after every injury, refusing every offer of help, fighting my body rather than working within its limitations. Ultimately my recovery was longer and harder because of my choices.
But I love that part of myself, too. In those moments, when I was splayed out on the ground, when I couldn’t climb the hill and collapsed into my chair, when I slid to my kitchen floor because a fever stripped my ability to walk, when the doctor looked at me with deep concern because the MS was ‘highly active’. There is almost no chance of success, victory isn’t a reasonable pursuit, survival isn’t an option. It’s the Kobayashi Maru, it’s the hab exploding, it’s John Snow facing a charging army. That part of myself sees these situations and draws her sword, not because fighting is how we win, but because when our life and freedom are on the line, fighting is all there is. Fighting is who we become.
I calm myself. I remember that this isn’t the end of my journey. Sometimes I need to experience these challenges to know what I can still rise from. I take my time to recover. I increase my walking slowly. I allow my body to heal.
A week later my wheelchair, the ‘Rocinante’, stood ready for me like any good steed. I sat down, the rims beneath my hands. The sun was rising.