One measely step.

On March 18th, I was playing pickleball with some other moms from the kids' school. One of my favorite activities. I had also signed up for an adult soccer league to start in a couple weeks. I had been slowly and lightly been reintroducing regular exercise into my life, as I wanted to avoid a soccer injury. Funny. For the first time in my life, I was being cognizant of the fact that I'm now 35, overweight, out of shape and too competitive for my own good (well, I've always known that part) as opposed to feeling invincible and 20. In the last year, I'd cut out drinking other than for social events, and I'd minimally reduced my caffeine and caloric intake. I had been, albeit at a snails pace, feeling healthier and healthier. I wouldn't say my efforts were overly impressive nor commendable by any stretch of the imagination, but the trend was in the right direction.

Yes, the, day before was not my best day (health conscious-wise...fun-wise = different story), because it was March 17th. St. Patrick's day. A Saturday as well. I spent the whole day standing in wedges and drinking beverages. I have no doubt I aggravated my feet and ankles in those shoes and left my body dehydrated and tight. In hindsight, I do remember waking up and having difficulty walking due to foot pain, but I easily ignored the discomfort. When I got dressed for pickleball, I selected a super-old pair of tennis shoes, because I felt they were still my most supportive for a court sport. As I continued to get ready for my ride to arrive, I helped Matt scurry the kids out the door for dinner at his parents. The whole time, I felt tempted to call the ride off. To tell them that instead I am spending the evening with my family. As Matt started the car, I went so far as to run up to the door and have him roll down the window. I asked, "Should I just come with you guys and skip pickleball? I kind of want to be with you all." He shrugged and said, "No, just go have fun." For the first time, ever, I just wasn't so sure it would be fun. I couldn't explain the feeling then, but I wonder now if it was dread?

Did I know my body wasn't ready for this kind of beating? Did I ignore signs of exhaustion and inflammation all day? Then again, I've been in waaaayyy worse condition before. I say I drank all day, but it really was not in excess. As I walked on the courts, I said something about being cold, and one of my closest friends says, "What? You are never cold". It's true. I did heed some of these feelings, and decided I wasn't going to go gang-busters. I wasn't going to drink. I was simply going to play and enjoy myself as well as the company and relax while it wasn't my turn on the court.

Then, when I was on the court, waiting to return a serve, during my 3rd game of the night. The ball came at me, slightly to my right and I had taken what I would describe as a longish lunge/leap type step in that direction. Except, the most bizarre and traumatizing event then took place. All in less than a split second. It seemed as though my left heel was not following my step, and that a large, heavy metal weight had fallen from the ceiling and landed directly onto the back of my ankle creating a very audible crashing sound and the pain you'd expect from getting a crowbar into your achilles, or a gunshot. As I swung my head around to look behind me, trying to find the source of this sensation, I scanned the room. Why was everyone going on as if nothing happened? Did no one else hear the thunderous crash? Such brief confusion; the ceiling intact, players all playing, nothing awry. But, also as my head was turning back, I was completing my step off and my left foot was about to land in front of me...and that was when the entire situation came to a flooding realization...

"FUUUCCCCKKKK!" I screamed, as my left foot stepped down, and I quickly lifted it back up, hopping on my right. Now, the other players stopped play looked my direction. Guess, they heard that. "I just snapped my achilles tendon. Oh my god, I just snapped my achilles tendon. It's gone. Fuck. It's gone." I am muttering aloud as I'm hopping to a pole. What I'm not saying aloud, but is flashing through my head is, "I don't have time for this. This is a real injury. This requires surgery and no weight bearing and time off work and physical therapy and a long time away from sports and being active and not playing in the TOPS (parent) tournament at school and pain and so much work for my husband. Oh my gosh, so much work for Matt. I have 5 kids."

As I get out of my head, I look up to see I'm surrounded by the friends I came with, and their somewhat stunned expressions. I instantly become nauseous, and my ears are ringing and I'm getting tunnel vision. All signs of pre-syncope (almost fainting) for me. I tell them, "I have to lay down, I'm going to throw up." I try to figure out the best way down and opt to go to my knees first and roll over. Everyone wants to help, but no one really knows what to do...and it dawns on me. I'm the doctor. Normally, I'd take charge and tell everyone what to do in this situation. So, I start barking orders. "I need ice and a wrap, do they have an ace bandage? And bring me that Advil I saw on the table. Oh man, I'm going to throw up. Also, my phone is on the table. I want to text Matt." I'm still on the edge of consciousness as all this is happening. In my memory, it felt like I was watching through a looking glass and someone else was asking for these things. I lay there and just let Whitney, an RN and Katie, a PT, ice and wrap my foot.

Next, I hobble to the car leaning heavily on 2 people. After lots of back and forth as to the best course of action, I opt for my mother's. She has a boot and crutches and no small children running around and bothering me. On the drive I text my ER and Ortho friends. We decide I can make it through the night and just get in to see the Ankle guy in the morning. I hang with my mom for a bit, she eventually gets me home, well after the kid's bedtime. I arrange for the nanny to arrive early and my mom to get the boys to school so we can get to the 7:45 appointment. I am horrible at crutches. Getting up to bed was simply miserable. Getting anywhere was miserable. Matt helps me get into pajamas, helps me ice and elevate my foot in bed. I can tell, he knows as well as I do that this is our future for the next few weeks. That is when I finally cry. Not from pain or discomfort. But from anger and pity and perhaps, even, a little guilt.

I know it might shock everyone to hear this, but I enjoy being busy. I don't typically sit down, except during the very specific hours of after 8:30pm and periodic short moments through the day. When trying to describe my energy, one of the diagnostic criteria for ADHD comes to mind, "Often on the move, as it propelled by a motor." I've guessed my "motor" to actually be a mixture of OCD, competitiveness and anxiety...but maybe I simply have ADHD. Who knows. Whatever the stem, it's who I am and how I've always been. Our house, our relationship, our (my) way of life depends on this motor. This puts undo stress on our families, our friends, our nanny and, of course, Matt most of all.

Matt and I have determined my current level of functioning to be that of a 3 to 4 year old. I'm able to eat my own food if a plate is made for me, dress myself if clothing is brought to me, and wipe my own a$$. That's pretty much the extent of it. I know this is ever so temporary. Just a few weeks of absolutely no weight-bearing. A few more weeks after that continuing to use crutches and a scooter. And then months of a boot and physical therapy. Our previous life will slowly come back, week after week, month after month, and in a year, I'll be playing pickleball again like a champ. Regaining my post as Number 1. But for now, it still hits me pretty hard, every so often, at how truly worthless I am at the moment...and how exhausting Matt's life currently is. One measly step.