I've told this story a million times. People don't seem to mind asking me about my scar when they see it. I feel strange talking about it, and frankly I'm getting tired of saying what happened. I usually just give a brief explanation as to what happened and move on. I really hate having all the attention on me. I've never written down or told anyone all the details about my whole shattering my leg adventure. So here it goes.
It was my second to last day of my Grand Canyon trip. We stopped at this part in the Grand Canyon where there were little rapids and clean blue water we could splash around in. Havasu Creek was the name. I'll never forget that. We climbed lots of rocks up and over, waded water, and walked a short distance. We finally arrived at the spot where we could hang out in the water for awhile. The boat guide took a small handful of us up a little higher to another spot in the water. When we got there the boat guide showed us this rather large, maybe 10-15 foot high boulder that we could climb up, walk across, and jump in the water. I asked if this was safe. The boat guide threw a rock in the water and said, "Yes, it's deep enough. We bring our tour groups up here all the time. Just watch out for the large rock in the water." I was a little leery about doing this, but part of me wanted to jump. I watched one guy from our group climb the rock and then jump. He resurfaced just fine. Another guy from our group jumped too. When he resurfaced he said he hit his back on some rocks and that he wasn't about to do that again. The first guy kept jumping off. Finally, my little devil on my shoulder got the best of me. I swam across the water to the other side of the bank, and then began climbing the very large and very tall boulder. It was a bit slippery but I made it to the top. Then I had to walk across the top of the boulder to its edge. There were lots of leaves and little hidden dips in the boulder. I had to make sure I didn't twist my ankle. I made it over to the edge of the boulder and looked down. The space to jump in was a little smaller than I anticipated. If I jumped too far to the right I would crash into a ton of rocks. If I jumped too far to the left, it would be too shallow and I could break my neck or something. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped. I flew in the air, went under the water, and felt myself hit some rocks, but it wasn't bad at all. When I resurfaced I was so happy! It was a fun jump and I wasn't hurt!! I immediately thought that I had to do that again. So I swam back over to the boulder, climbed up it, and walked ever so carefully to the edge. I counted to three in my head and once again jumped. This time, when I went under the water my feet hit bottom and the whole weight of my body after flying through the air came crashing down on my feet; most of my weight was on my right side of my body. Before I resurfaced, I felt a shooting pain travel up my right foot, ankle, and leg. Immediately Forrest Gump of all people was in my head, and he said, "And just like that, my running days were over." I knew something was terribly wrong. When I resurfaced I had to get to the other side. Somehow I managed to kick my legs and grab on the rock by the bank. Looking at it now, I know that adrenaline helped me to get over there. I sat on the rock and was hit with an unbelievable amount of excruciating pain. I was in so much pain I actually had my breath knocked out of me. I was hoping that I could shake off the pain and then I could walk, but the more I stayed there the more I knew that wasn't going to happen. I tried putting my weight on my leg and I just fell forward. I couldn't hold myself up. The boat guide came over to ask me what was wrong, I couldn't answer at first because I couldn't talk from the pain. I eventually gasped out that I hurt my leg and I couldn't put any weight on my leg. How I managed to go around that rock, and up the other side where everyone else was is just beyond me. I did a lot of hopping on one foot I think. I sat on the rock with my leg out and took a bandana filled with the icy river water and kept pouring that on my knee. In no time my knee swelled up like a balloon. At that point, my fun time was over. I just wanted to go home. A few tears leaked out of my eyes, but that was it. I forced myself to not cry; otherwise I knew I wouldn't stop. Dad wasn't there when this all happened, but at this point he came over to me and knew something wasn't right. I then thought,"How the heck am I going to get back to the boat?" I was lifted up and given a stick to use to help me walk. I couldn't even put a little weight on my leg, so the stick was out. Dad couldn't carry me on his back because he has bad knees. The boat guide, who felt terrible at this point, put me on his back and we started the long way back to the boat. He carried me up rocks, down rocks, through water. It was ridiculous what he did. We passed other group members who decided to join me going back to the boat. I felt terrible. I remember apologizing so many times. My group members helped me lift my leg up and over rocks, and eventually I made it back to the boat. I got an ace bandage from the boat guide and chunks of ice to put on my leg. At first I thought I had some ligaments torn on my knee. I really had no idea what happened. I took some Advil and kept it wrapped up. I was completely dependent on everyone at this point. And that was just awful. I couldn't help anyone. Hell, I couldn't even go to the bathroom on my own. I had to get someone to carry me on their back and two girls in the group held up plastic sheeting for me to hide behind. Ridiculous. Anytime I was jostled, carried, or went over waves on the water I hurt badly. I didnt complain though. I couldn't. Everyone was being so nice and helpful to me. One thing that I couldn't believe happened was the other boat guide had the balls to come up to me and tell me that sometimes people think and pretend they are hurt just for attention. If looks could kill he would've been dead. Why would I pretend all this? I was hurt and in pain, and he had the gumption to sit there and tell me that. That night when everyone was asleep, I finally lost it. I cried all those tears I was holding back. I just wanted to go home. I couldn't believe what was happening to me. It was just awful. The next day we all were helicoptered out of the Grand Canyon and then we could head home. The only thing was, dad and I drove. It would take us 2 days to get home. Dad and I also wanted to stop at Sandia Peak. So the first night I still didn't have crutches. Dad had to push me around either in a chair or a luggage cart. It was a whole lot more fun when I was a kid. We looked up a place nearby that had crutches, and the next day we drove there and I got fitted for crutches. We headed to Sandia Peak and rode the tram thing up the mountain. I got to skip in line and sit because I was handicapped. I hated the attention. After Sandia Peak we were heading home. Throughout the trip my leg would get these spasms that hurt so bad. But I kept taking my Advil, iced it down, and grinned and beared it. I made doctor appointments on the way home. When I made it home I saw the doctor a couple days later. I had an MRI done twice and a week after I hurt my leg finally found out what exactly I did. The doctor came in and said, "Well, you either go big or go home don't you?" I just looked at the doctor and told him to tell me what I did. He told me that I fractured my leg in 2 places below the knee and that I had some collapsed bones. He said I shattered my leg and that I would need surgery to get a plate and screws put in my leg. Mom broke down and cried. Me, I just sat there and thought ok, I will get through this. So I went to see an orthopedic surgeon and 2 weeks after I shattered my leg I was having surgery.
I had surgery on Friday, July 2nd to get a plate and 7 screws put in my leg. No one was having surgery that day because it was almost July 4th. My doctor came in special for me because it had already been two weeks since I broke the darn thing. I had to prepare for surgery before I got to the hospital by bathing in this weird red stuff. Not my idea of a refreshing bath. When I got to the hospital with my bag of clothes and such, I went in to this room with a bed in it and changed into a very attractive hospital gown, socks, and a shower cap thing (note the sarcasm there). One of the nurses came in and hooked me up to the machine that shows if I'm alive or not. She made a comment about how my heartbeat was normal. Usually peoples' heartbeats are going ninety to nothing. I just told her I was going to be ok. I knew that God was watching out for me giving me His strength and my angels were there with me too. Several nurses came in and before they all left they told me they couldn't believe that I have been going around for 2 weeks with a shattered leg just taking a couple Advil. I told them I even went to the movies theaters the day before and Lowe's (which is true). That's when I realized that I have a high tolerance for pain. Go figure. Anyway, the anesthesiologist came in and put a nerve block directly into the main nerve of my leg. She explained that would put pain meds directly into my leg and then after a few minutes I could press a little button and shoot extra pain meds to my leg if needed. She also gave me what they called margarita juice. It made me feel like I was drunk as a skunk; although I could still talk and hold a conversation at this point. After that, I said goodbye to my family and was wheeled away to the operating room. The nurses were very nice and answered my questions for me along the way. When I got to the operating room I heard them say, "Let's get you some more margarita juice." Apparently I was too coherent for them. I put myself on the very cold and skinny operating table, took one look around and thought to myself, "This sure doesn't look anything like the operating room on Grey's Anatomy." and was out like a light. Next thing I knew, I was waking up with an oxygen mask over my face. The guy that was watching me when I woke up was very nice. He wheeled me into my hospital room for the night and answered my silly questions. I remember asking him if they used epinephrine on me to knock me out (I'm allergic to it so I wanted to make sure they didn't.). Anyway, so I made into my very nice and spacious hospital room waiting for my family to come up. I made it through the surgery. I thought that would have been the worst of it, but boy was I very wrong. Mom stayed with me that night. Apparently my sister and dad were there, but I remember thinking good they left like five minutes after I got into the room. I didn't want them sitting there staring at me for hours on end. Turns out they were there for hours instead of minutes like I thought. Silly drugs. That night marked the worst night of my entire life. I was in so much pain. The Vicodin, nerve block, and whatever else they gave me was not working at all. I remember watching the clock every 20 minutes so I could press the extra button on the nerve block to shoot extra pain meds to my leg. I had to make a million trips to the bathroom, which is good, but the problem was I couldn't feel where the toilet was plus I couldn't stand on my leg. Thank goodness my mom was there. Finally I ended up calling the nurse into my room. I told him I'd rather they cut off my leg at this point the pain was so bad. He ended up shooting this magical and oh so wonderful red stuff into my iv and that did the trick; for a short while anyway. I really wished I could have taken some magical red stuff home with me. The next day I went home. Home that summer was my sister's house. To get to my bedroom at her place I wouldn't need the stairs. This meant I would be away from my sweet kitty for the summer. It was terrible.
When I made it to my sister's house I slept on my back in my bed (This was just terribly uncomfortable because I love to sleep on my side and stomach.) with ice on my leg for 24 hours. Then I hobbled with my crutches and bag that held my nerve block (yep still in my leg) over to the couch and laid there all day. I was completely dependent on everyone. I hated that. I started physical therapy where Andy, my physical therapist, had to reteach me how to walk again. Yep. I couldn't walk. It took weeks for me to learn how to walk again. He had to first somehow reconnect my brain to my leg. Apparently in situations like mine, when a part of the body goes through a traumatic experience it shuts itself off from the brain as a way to protect the leg from getting hurt again. I did all kinds of stretching, bending, and lifting exercises. I could stretch and bend a little bit, but not lift. I tried so hard, and never gave up. And I worked through the pain; a lesson my ballet teacher taught me years and years ago. Finally, after weeks of all this I was able to work on putting some weight on my leg for the first time in well over a month. Then I began walking with the use of equipment. What a wonderful day that was! When I went in to get my 24 staples out, the doctor told me I wouldn't be able to run again and do marathons. I was crushed. Running was what I did! What was I suppose to do? I refused to listen to him. I basically looked at him and said, "Watch me." I worked so hard. I figured out a way to maneuver the stairs and was able to go home to my own bed and sweet kitty. By this time, school was starting and it was back to work for me. My kids were so great. When school started, I was walking around with crutches for several weeks, then I went down to using one crutch, and then I was off crutches and used a cane for several weeks. All this time I was working hard to get myself running again.
My parents thought I was crazy. I complete the Princess Half Marathon each year and I signed up to do the one that followed my leg injury. I knew in my heart I had to be there. I had to complete it. I wasn't an idiot. I didn't run, but I walked it. My sister stayed with me the entire time. I'll never forget that. I saw the finish line and found myself slowly running. I couldn't believe how close I was, plus I was doing a little more then just walking! I worked so hard and after being told I wouldn't do marathons anymore I was almost there. When I crossed that finish line I began to cry. Not even 6 months since I shattered my leg had passed and against all odds I did it. I completed a marathon after being told I'd never do it again. I never gave up. Well this just fueled the fire in me. I had to run again. If I could do what I just did, I knew in my heart I could run. And that's just what I did. Took me awhile to get there, but I did. I even called the doctor to make sure I wasn't going to hurt my leg running, and he said that as long as I take it easy I should be just fine. He sounded shocked actually that I was running.
During all this, I only cried that one time out in the Grand Canyon. I wouldn't let myself lose it like that anymore. I couldn't. There were so many people going through much worse than what I was going through; experiencing so much more pain than me. I kept remembering my aunt, who died of brain cancer, my godmother, who died of ovarian cancer, and my grandfather, who died of prostate cancer. They went through so much more pain and suffering than me. I had to stay strong. Lance Armstrong said, "Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever." I couldn't let myself go; I had to stay strong for them.
It's been two years since all this happened. Since then I can successfully tell you when it will rain or when there is a change in the weather pressure. I'm a human barometer. My leg starts hurting with shooting pain. Not fun, but does come in handy sometimes; like when the kids are playing on the playground at recess, I know when to blow the whistle to go in early before it rains. I can't cross my legs or keep it bent for as long as I use to. I can bend my leg backwards but not nearly as far as my other leg. I probably won't ever bend it all the way back again. I can't put my whole weight on my right leg when I'm kneeling. Sometimes my leg pops a lot and goes out on me. Walking on slippery ground is hard for me because my unstable leg tends to slip out from right under me. My leg under my knee and down to my toes is still numb. I am running. Not far and not fast, but I am running. I can only run 3 miles without stopping, and when I run I limp a little. I'm working on not limping when I run. I usually train to run/walk my marathons. I have completed 3 half marathons since shattering my leg, and I have signed up to complete a full marathon in January of 2013. I still haven't worked up the courage to jump into water like a swimming pool yet. I'm working on that though. I refuse to let that scare me all my life. I have a lovely 5 inch or so scar on my leg. I'm proud of my scar. It shows that I went through something and survived. I don't like to show my scar off though. I get all shy when people ask to see it. What is even worse is when I'm out running and I pass people on the trails I see them glance down at my scar and then back up at me with this weird look on their faces. I think I hate that the most. It fuels the fire in me though. It makes me run harder. It makes me more of a fighter. Sounds silly doesn't it?
This has been an adventure of a lifetime for me. Not a very good one. But I have learned through God that I can find strength and courage in me when I never thought it was possible. "I can do all things through Him who strengthens me."-Philippians 4:13
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