My Achilles Exploded...
and it might have been the best thing for me.
On January 10th, I drove with my right foot for the first time in three months. It was alien, yet familiar. Awkward, yet perfectly natural. Second-nature, yet it required the utmost focus. But, more than anything, terrifying beyond belief. Before my big toe made contact with the gas pedal, I was gripped with the fear I thought I’d put aside.
Extensive research had prepared me for the psychological aspects of recovery. Since the re-injury rate with a torn Achilles is so high, many (if not all) athletes experience a kind of mental block or extreme apprehension when returning to their chosen sport. I’m not calling myself a major athlete by any means, but I do plan to fight and continue to powerlift competitively. So, I prepared myself for some mental gymnastics.
What I did not expect was terror in mundanity.
In the beginning, going from one side of my apartment to the other was a journey fraught with danger. Even upon the back of my trusty steed, Milton, there was every chance that a misplaced step, an incautious bump, or an ill-fated tumble could change my 90% tear to a full, inglorious rupture. When I crawled over the tub’s edge to shower, my foot flopped behind me, feeling like a disconnected, useless part of my body. Yet, I was so aware of each unidentified twinge or ache, that I maneuvered with the all the caution of Catherine Zeta-Jones. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’re welcome.
Cooking, cleaning, washing myself, going to the bathroom, puttering around the gym - all these simple tasks had become risks, and for weeks there was no indication of the next step. Surgery? No surgery? What would it take, and how great of a financial sacrifice would I have to make to move forward? Night after night I would lie awake, swimming in ambiguity and unable to ignore the crawling sensation beneath my skin as I imagined severed tissue curling into my calf like a fleshy party horn. I couldn’t stand being so helpless. I couldn’t stand not knowing.
But, true to form, all this melancholy took a back seat when I was given A Task. The ortho called to wish me a happy birthday and inform me that new research proves there is equal success with surgical and conservative recovery methods, even for athletes. In Layman’s terms: I could proceed with physical therapy. While initially skeptical, I could not deny the relief of avoiding being at the mercy of a surgeon. To some degree, the responsibility of recovery had been placed in my hands - I was no longer waiting to see if some stranger with a scalpel could fix me. How quickly and how well I healed was entirely dependent on time and my level of discipline. Now that, I could handle
I was fortunate enough to be referred to Dan, a physical therapist who shared a love for rock climbing and feats of athleticism. I knew from our first conversation that we would get along, since he, too, had his doubts about conservative treatment for a 90% Achilles tear. His skepticism did not reignite my own, rather, it reassured me that he was unwilling to simply take a doctor at their word. He completed his own research, read up on the latest studies and trials, and did not agree to work with me until he was satisfied that it would be to my benefit.
Soon I was doing sprint intervals on the stationary bike, hamstring curls, leg extensions, and seated (weighted) calf raises. Then came barbell hip thrusts, heel elevated goblet squats, standing calf raises, and balancing on the bum leg. I could walk without a boot. I no longer scooted up and down stairs on my ass like some kind of deranged drunkard who can’t put one foot above the other. The spongy flesh above my heel regained tension as scar tissue knitted the frayed ends of my tendon back together. There was progress, it was measurable, and the fear had all but vanished. If Dan told me I could do something without injuring myself, I believed him. I was cautious, certainly, but there was no longer ice in my blood every time I rose from sitting or set my feet on the pedals of an assault bike.
Throughout the majority of this process I was driving. Roughly a week post-injury they transferred me from the semi-flimsy, malleable splint to a hard, plastic, airbag-cushioned boot. Once I had this added layer of security, it only took a few Uber trips before I felt the gnawing call of hyper-independence. Relying on others to get from A to B, and thus to carry out tasks necessary for survival, was nothing less than revolting. I knew I couldn’t bring myself to try and fumble for the pedals through several inches of protective plastic, so there was only one logical solution.
Was it strictly legal to drive with my left foot while my other leg was slung across the center console and resting in the passenger’s seat? Probably not. But if it meant I could go where and do what I liked, I was willing to take the risk. When the boot came off and I could put my right foot behind my left on the driver’s side, so much the better. I didn’t know when I would start using the proper foot again, only that it was not recommended until I could “comfortably apply firm pressure” to the pedals, whatever that meant. It left me just enough uncertainty to do one of the things I do best - procrastinate.
So, what was it that possessed me to make another move towards normalcy? Why the 10th, when I was making a two-hour trek into Milwaukee? I’m not sure. Maybe it was my ever-improving gait, or the return of Leg Days into my weekly routine, but as I slid into the driver’s seat, I found my right foot moving into its old position.
No sooner had I lifted from the break than my heart leapt to my throat. Microfiber leather creaked with despair as my fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The car was moving slowly, propelled only by its automatic transmission, since my foot was hovering, frozen, three inches above the gas pedal. I couldn’t put it down. My leg twitched with the memory of my tendon snapping - like being smacked in the calf with a lead pipe - and in a split second I thought of all the things that could go wrong. Brake too fast, foot goes past 90 degrees. Snap. Back to square one. Get into an accident, foot goes past 90 degrees. Snap. Body gets destroyed. Double snap. Back to square negative-fifty. All the work I’d done over these last few months gone in half a moment. More waiting. More uncertainty. More helplessness. Anger. Frustration. Words and looks saturated with pity.
It was then that I reverted to one of my oldest and earliest survival instincts, one of my original traits, you might say: a desire to ‘go’. Before I knew to do anything else, I knew I wanted to go places; to always be pursuing something, discovering something, and, most importantly, moving forward. This has propelled me through some of the blackest times, drawing on an endless reservoir that demands I continue. Crawl through the mud, ignore your wounds, keep going, even if that means you’ll only make it to tomorrow.
I fixed my eyes forward and turned off the radio, driving in silence as my thoughts swirled into white noise. My shoe finally met with the gas pedal and “applied firm pressure” as I urged the car to a sensible 30mph. I wanted to pull over and switch feet at every corner, every gas station, but, that weakness was buried beneath the compulsion of ‘go’. The concept of quitting flitted away down my stream of uninterrupted thought, and soon the fear subsided. By the time I made it to the highway, I had relaxed into the pleasure of driving and I was starting to muse more coherently.
What would happen if I had to start this healing process over? Who was I now in comparison to who I was then? If I’m being honest with myself, before the tear, I had let myself walk into another dark fog: a state of mind that dulls and dampens me until I operate on autopilot. I become a machine concerned only with doing what is necessary to survive or brings quick, easy hits of dopamine. Books I want to read sit perfect and unopened. Writing projects are held captive behind the barricade of a blinking cursor. Hobby tools gather dust and pots of paints separate until they’re a useless soup of water and chunky pigment. I see audition opportunities in my inbox and scroll past them, ignoring the tightness in my chest. The mist thickens, and bit by bit, the pieces of me that identify as Artist are lost.
I’ve wandered in and out of this gloom over the years, trapped for varying lengths of time, but whenever I emerge it is because I am jolted - slapped back into myself so hard that the world regains some of its color. A failed marriage. An arrest. COVID. Jail. A torn Achilles.
Each of these moments led to periods of introspection and growth that I do not think would have occurred otherwise. I am, at my core, a stubborn creature, and I will often continue down paths of self-destruction in spite of knowing the dangers. Maybe it’s because, on some level, I think I deserve whatever repercussions come kicking at my door. Maybe I want the repercussions, because I know that’s what’s needed to get my head out of my ass. Who can say?
Regardless, each rectocraniectomy sprouted a new branch on the Growth tree and returned a piece of me that I had lost to Life’s proverbial liver shots. I adopted healthy habits and found a ravenous appetite for getting stronger. I had better relationships with my friends, family, and even strangers. Every so often, the Artist would tentatively emerge from its cave and give me moments of inspiration. A mini painted here, a few hours of a DnD session prepped there, but it always retreated back to its hovel quicker than expected. Cobwebs grew on the Artist’s tools, and creation was barely a part of my daily existence.
I figured this time around, I might as well break that particular cycle.
No one may care to read this, but putting something out there in “public” is a way to keep myself accountable. As I endeavor to consistently utilize the Artist and sharpen all of its tools, I will write about the joys, frustrations, and hilarities of this voyage. I will write about my moments of weakness and moments of strength. I will write about Life. But, above all, I will write.
It’s time to burn some cobwebs.