Heaven

Me doing a piece I originally wrote a few years back and posted here. I edited it a bit for performance and then memorised it an hour before going on stage.

Damn you, Sky Monkey.

12 monkeys made their way from cloud nine this morning carrying the fury of the marsupial sky king in buckets.

That's the only way I can accurately describe the weather today. From the earliest waking moments through press time, there has been no reprieve. My rainsuit needed and received makeshift patches and I boldly took to the road on Pandora with a few accessories as possible.

Here's to getting home dry tonight.

Notable Moments

My company was mentioned as a sponsor in arguably this year's largest party event - Colour Me Red: The Return.

The Story of Achilles: Chapter 3

I was supposed to have physiotherapy yesterday. When I checked the appointment card before leaving home, it didn't have a time, but rather a note to call. So I called.

The therapist and I had a brief banter about my leg and my activities and she concluded that I could continue at home as there was nothing we could do at therapy that I could not do (better) at home. Ultra-sound was the last aspect (for the pain and nerve damage) and that was now obsolete. "Congrats and keep up the good work," she said. When I started therapy a few days after taking off the cast, they told me it would be six to nine months before I could use the leg with any real significance.

It has been four months and 11 days since surgery.

Tomorrow will be just three months since taking off the cast!

And here's the magic news... I actually jogged yesterday. Yes, there was something of a limp in every stride, but it was surely much more than walking quickly! My initial goal was to be running again by the end of the year, but it seems that will not even be a consideration. Perhaps I need to aim even higher... like climbing the Pitons again before the end of the year. Hmmm... We'll see how it goes after carnival which happens in a hair's breadth over a month from now.

Funnily enough, a friend approached me to join our parkour movement yesterday. I guess time really doesn't wait. Why should I?

The new chapter begins.

I ran last Friday.

Truthfully, "run" is just the simple excuse of a description.

It wasn't as chaotic as tumbling.

It definitely wasn't a graceful as sprinting.

It was rapid movement down a hill, chasing after my three dogs, using my legs

...

mostly...

somewhat.

The more in depth description involved a great deal of primal movement that has become second nature to me. Over the past two and half years, since adopting (as best as I can) the primal/paleo lifestyle much has changed, and even much more has happened. Today marks four months and four days since my Achilles tendon rupture. Two and a half months since I have been out of a cast. I am walking without the inverted commas/quotation marks. I am working out old-school primal/paleo style. And I am able to walk barefoot comfortably again.

*Digression: living barefoot is more comfortable to me than wearing shoes in any scenario (I consider wearing Vibram Fivefingers as going barefoot still). But with an inflexible tendon, comfort gave way to the physical inability to place my heel flat on the floor with my leg straight, hence the need for shoes with inserts.*

So while I amazed myself in moving so quickly all of a sudden, I am not so surprised that I am able to, all things considered. I have learned to adapt subconsciously to every situation I come across - be it conquer, change or submit - with remarkable fluidity. So "running" without the full use of my leg, while improbable, was not impossible for when it was called.

Step by step

Wow. Moving with only one crutch is excruciatingly tedious. That said, the tendon is realising that we are not playing anymore.

# Not so random thought: can you compress "we are not" to "we'ren't"? #

The quad, hamstring, calf and hip flexor exercises are now starting to pay off for more than aesthetic purposes. So we soldier on.

The Story of Achilles: The hare and the tortoise

12 weeks post-op. Two weeks ago, three weeks into physiotherapy, the therapist said I should start experimenting with putting weight on my injured side (although I had already taken a few unassisted steps and started riding again). Today, five weeks into therapy, she is frustrated with the doctors lack of follow-up attention and prescribes I use one crutch for the next two weeks, on stable ground - it's still raining although dry season has technically supposed to have begun. I can see the need to remove the crutches as soon as sensibly possible. I am already highly dependent on them if only for the sake of efficiency and fun, but at the cost of development. It is much easier and faster to use two crutches and one leg, than one crutch and two legs. But that means it would take twice as long for the recovering leg to learn it's basic functions again. To move faster tomorrow, I need to slow down and move steadily today.

I clearly have not stuck to the photo project.

Ouch

Over the four-day weekend I rode south for to consecutive days. I learnt how much depends on the proper functioning of one tendon. Without the ability to lift my body off the seat at a moments notice, my spine became an extension of my Suzuki GSXR-600's rear shock. Not comfortable. Today the lower back is paying for my indulgence and insolence.

The Story of Achilles: Get out, get down

I’m losing count of time again. Daybreak. Sunset. Moonlight. Repeat. I have tangible physical progress with my Achilles tendon, but with only abstract relation to previous benchmarks. February 2nd between five and six in the evening is the start, and since then every moment has been registered in history by the moments prior to it rather than by date. Days, weeks and months have lost their respective order. It is disconcerting only to the end that my goals are becoming abstract concepts of the future instead of a linear path of achievement.

I started riding again [recently].

I finally visited the origin of this particular journey [recently].

It’s Holy Week leading up to the most important event in my faith.

The Story of Achilles: How deep is your sole?

I’ve been dedicated to the strict regimen of therapy, and obsessed with getting off the reliance on crutches as soon as possible. I have become so accustomed to them, they are now accessories, toys, play things, getting more in the way than helping me along the way.

Progress.

Three insoles in my sneaker. One deep breath.

The Story of Achilles: Therapy Works

Two months post-op and I believe I've gone quite far along the road back to normal.

*sudden realisation*

Until I typed those words, it hadn't tangibly occurred to me just how long I've been sidelined. I have been simply facing each day and planning the next. This state of constantly striving for millimeters of flexibility, muscle control and abstract strength is my normal. Hmm.

I can stand completely unaided (almost, depending on wind conditions) and can now walk (hobble Quasimodo style) with only one crutch. The swelling still occurs when I forget to elevate and use the warm water bottle during the days at work. The nerve damage caused by the cast on the top of my foot which makes my toes tingle is subsiding, which indicates the ultrasound is doing what the therapists said it would. I need to remember to start a weekly photo-journal.

The Story of Achilles: Almost 90 degrees in the shade

This morning after taking the dogs out I did Ab Ripper X. No breaks, all the way. Stay strong!

I can almost touch the ground with my heel already. I can stand without the crutches but still can't put any serious weight on the right leg, much less even take a step, but the flexibility is improving noticeably with every stretch / massage / exercise session I do - and I do that at least three times a day on non-therapy days. I've been substituting heat therapy with muscle rub out of convenience/laziness. Sometimes while stretching I wonder what it looks like from the inside. I iam not sure if it is my imagination or reality, but I believe I can feel the tendon grasping onto the nylon sewn in place and its own repairing fibres. Unnerving.

This morning I saw some of the veins running across my calf and shin again ... sign that they muscles are alive and breathing again.

The Story of Achilles: Therapy Begins

Today was the first day of physiotherapy. My right leg is wasted, inflamed, numb, somewhat atrophied. I couldn't wait to get the ball rolling.

Ultrasound

Heat wrap

Massage

Stretch

Exercise

Life's Little Pleasures

- bending a knee when sitting

- turning over in bed without having to wake up

- wet grass underfoot

- taking a shower and feeling that cold water run down from head to toe

Clean and clear

Freedom Friday

They told me everything I need to do, when to do it, and how. But didn't tell me anything in terms of what to expect:

"Your skin will be dry - clean it and keep it moisturised."

It didn't flake. It didn't peel much. It was so dry, when the first drops of water touched my skin, a cream appeared. My skin had disintegrated into a fine dust held fast by the cast. After ten minutes of scrubbing the muck, dried cotton and dead hair follicles off my leg and foot, a layer of dermis below started to flake and peel. Another 15 minutes of cleansing, and a half cup of baby oil later, my limb is presentable enough to wear shorts in public.

"You need to massage and work flexibility back into the tendon. It will be stiff."

Understatement of the day.

Stiff is what your neck feels like after falling asleep on someone's lap. Stiff is chewing gum you saved to eat dinner, then thought you could use again after dessert. Stiff is not what your Achilles tendon is after six weeks of immobility. My tendon is as hard as glacial packed rock. My first massage made my finger tips tender and seemed only to help remove some more dead skin.

"..."

They didn't say anything about the soreness in my knee. Common sense told me the joint would require some getting used to the freedom, but this much internal restriction should be cataloged somewhere. The massaging helps, but I see proactive exercises for the thigh and knee in the very short future.

"Have a good weekend."

Okay, that one works for me. You too!

*UPDATE*

Three hours and at least five massages since coming home and the rock hard tendon is giving way to the stiff one I was told to expect. I can now move it side to side. Progress faster than I could have imagined, but not hoping for more than I receive.

Tomorrow

The perfect clip from one of my favorite movies as a child, rediscovered recently as an adult. There's no better way to describe how I feel today.

Where are you?

At random moments throughout the day I find myself down long pondering trips and wonder where I was that I needed to be found. So I came here, only to lose what I thought was worth keeping from my wandering wondering.

. . . 42 . . .

I thought you would be excited, not as much as I am of course, but at least a little, as this will be a good event. But instead you found something to be worry about. I am having a hard time keeping up the positive attitude. I am sure you notice that more and more, I withdraw and leave it be, rather than deal with whatever. I still can't tell if this is harder or the easy way out. It isn't my nature, but neither is living under this ominous cloud, constantly battered by unpredictable turmoil. And don't think for a moment I don't understand the turmoil, or can't appreciate it. Nature played different games with us, and we learnt to face the storm differently.

Monkey

Despite the fact that I always say this to multitudes of situations, "The monkey said to" finally made sense to me today. It means, "Why ask why?" There is no reason or purpose behind the line other than to be. That's it. It's not a question. It's not an insult. It isn't directed to any person, animal or thing. And there are no monkeys involved.

Example:

"What are you doing?"

"I thought it might help"

"How could you think doing that would possibly help??"

"The monkey said to."

Get it?

Sometimes, what we do is bigger than us - clear to one, lost on another. Sometimes, you just do what you do because it is what you do for the greater good. Sometimes, there's no reason that will be understood because it applies to something else, but this one action in life affects so many others unknown to us. Sometimes we just find ourselves stumbling along a path we have no recollection finding in the forest of our minds. Sometimes we stay on, following it through. Sometimes we realise, just in time, we need to get off. And sometimes when we try to think back of why or how ... sometimes, there is no reason.

Get your move on. Now.

I think the ratio between time and tolerance is exponentially inversely proportional. By the time you digest that, I will be six million to the 24th power as impatient as I was just thinking about it when I wrote this. “Freedom Friday” is just over 66 hours away.

Yes, I am counting down.

And yes, I am down to 66 hours.

And yes, it is excruciatingly slow after the unbelievably rapid past five weeks, three days, 16 hours.

Most people don’t realise that the cast removal is only the first step - no, “step” is really inappropriate at this stage in getting back on my feet. Walking will be yet another countdown away. But we will ... *sigh* why can I only think of the lamest action metaphors right now?

Enjoy your movement while it is still yours to enjoy.

He's not heavy, he's my cast.

Only one more week left in the cast. I can't get comfortable enough to sleep more than an hour at a time, but now it is because the knowledge that I am so much closer to freedom makes the constriction almost unbearable. Physically, not much has changed, but mentally it seems the cast is a ball and chain, a burden I cannot shake off soon enou...*

# sudden realisation #

Physically, something HAS changed - drastically. The five weeks of inactivity have affected my left leg. My thigh is visibly slimmer, I can fit my hand all the way past my knee now. But it never occurred to me that my entire limb, not just the tendon, is also significantly weaker.

The burden is real.

The dog days are (almost) over.

The little one had surgery - removal of an abscess and neutering. Our house has been uncharacteristically calm and not so smelly for the past two days. I wait, not holding my breath, to see if the changes last.

The older one's ears are being treated for who-knows-what. At least he isn't scratching the life out of them for the moment. And again, the house is not so smelly for it.

The little lady in the middle remains the constant in our pack.

Office Day

Today is the fourth day in the office after starting my new job ... five weeks ago. It's ironic how having the cast - which signifies an injury - makes most people move very cautiously around me, when the very cast makes me more invulnerable to injury than anyone else around.

The Story of Achilles: Open Mouths and Pelau

Four weeks down, two more to go.

The padding in the cast, especially around my knee, is wearing thin. In less than a week I have mentally moved from apprehension to impatience towards the day the cast is removed.

I dream about taking a long, full shower. I can’t wait to float and soak in the ocean. I want to bend my knee and get back on my motorcycle, wearing my new helmets.

I have no false fantasies about running, jumping or even walking yet though. One step at a time. I really just want this cast off.

The inevitable loss of size in my leg is now glaringly evident as my thigh floats in the mouth of the fibreglass shell. My knee cracks frequently having more lateral movement available instead of its nature-intended flexions. Overall however, I am glad I have not fluctuated more than two pounds. Push-ups, pulls-ups, core exercises ensure I maintain some form and frame.

I’m having pelau for lunch.

The Story of Achilles: Fight Back

Since the stitches were removed last Friday, I have begun to come to terms with the impermanence of the cast. I made a commitment to aggressively wean myself off the painkillers. The lowered defense is most noticeable at night. Between the frequent awakenings to find a comfortable compromise in repose, and forced surrender to sheer exhaustion, I manage to meet each dawn.

Last night I dreamt about the morning after the cast was removed. In that dream, I awoke and could actually see the tendon, as though my skin was transparent. The tendon was not seamless and smooth as portrayed in medical illustrations, but more a crude experimental creation of Dr. Frankenstein - alive and functional, but by no means beautiful. I could stand firmly on both feet, but didn't try to walk. I just stood there.

Staring.

Waiting.

- - -

I am determining how to manage going back to work (physically, in the office). Sitting with my leg elevated constantly for two hours puts a strain on my lower back that requires at least half an hour of lying down to relieve. While moving around intermittently, rather than sitting continually, lengthens how long I can sit, it also means longer periods needed to rest when I do eventually succumb. I have been coping with plying my trade from home, being that the nature of my work allows telecommuting, but there is something to be said for the value of community and proximity that cannot be understated.

Perhaps this battle with the painkillers may have to be more diplomatic than militaristic.

- - -

Tomorrow will be four weeks since the day of the rupture.

The Story of Achilles: 21 days and counting

This day was inevitable. Today, my sanctuary was violated. My cast was rendered assailable.

A dull rotating hand saw carved a crude window in the fibre-glass shell, exposing my wound for the first time in three weeks. Evenly sewn stitches were removed one by one from parched, tender flesh. Flesh that had found a sense of peace in its undisturbed solace of inactivity. Although gentle and amiable, the nurse had no concept of the massive, psychological security breach she initiated.

I need this rupture healed - yet - I want this joint to live in greater safety than I have provided - yet - I need to be stronger than before - yet - I want the strength of the cast - yet - I need to be free of this crutch, and these crutches - yet - I harbour conflict within: a desperate fight to step forward, somehow without stepping out, just yet.

I am constantly aware of the tendon, convinced that what I feel with every passing second is it slowly binding itself together, at a molecular level. It is equally fascinating as it is disconcerting. It commands me to rest, while preventing me from sleep.

The Story of Achilles: The Beginning

Today

The cotton padding is starting to fall apart. Three weeks into this confinement, the cast has begun to wreak havoc behind my knee. Perhaps it’s the freedom from pain, allowing me too much movement. While my surgically repaired Achilles tendon is getting the much needed rest, the rest of me is ensuring a strong frame is maintained and ready for the moment, as the cast is removed three weeks from now, when it will be required to take up the new slack.

In the fading moments of clarity before sleep envelops my mind, I sometimes liken my leg and its fibre-glass exoskeleton to captives experiencing Stockholm Syndrome towards their captors. There are panicky flashes of apprehension when I think about the day when I will no longer have the safety and security of this cast protecting my reincarnated tendon, leaving me vulnerable to the dangers of the outside world as I unavoidably, albeit tentatively, embark upon the long journey of rehabilitation. The replayed memory of the one step that went wrong sends neurotic nerve signals down my leg, and I struggle to suppress a sharp pain concocted in my mind, a haunting feeling I yet cannot escape.

The following is a retrospective journal of my injury, and the subsequent days.

February 2, 2011 - 1715hrs

After months of excuses, citing reasons both valid and vapid, we’re warming up, jogging towards the stadium to wean our way back into the lifestyle movement we boast - parkour. Now warm, stretched, and bursting with a youthful pride belied by our true ages, we begin practicing wall climbs. The familiar motions come back with repeated attempts.

The confidence returns.

The walls get higher.

At 12 feet, I say, “I can make that.” My fingertips graze the top on the first attempt. With an air of [ ... ], I take an extra step back and proclaim, “I’m making that wall!”

I charge the wall.

The first footplant is solid.

The second is almost gravity defying.

The third is ... *pop!*

Gravity, no longer defied, catches up with me and I return to earth, rolling out of the inevitable crash with second nature fluidity. But something is wrong. It’s not my twice dislocated ankle that is hurting... in fact, there is little pain whatsoever. Just a definitely wrong feeling. I try to stand and promptly keel over face first. Now, the pain roars from behind my ankle. I look down at where my Achilles tendon should be, and see no tension in the skin. It is completely ruptured (a fact that will only be confirmed 16 hours later, as I am being admitted to the hospital for corrective surgery).

February 4, 2011 - 1400hrs

Its taking me a while to get the piercings out by myself, having lost the argument that none of my adornments are anywhere near my leg, much less foot. Most of the people in Victoria Hospital’s Ward 9 are staring in unabashed curiosity at the tattooed man without bandages or an IV drip, who lies among them, who is now struggling to unscrew, unclamp, and unhinge stainless steel rods and rings from his face and chest. Two orderlies saunter into the ward, wheeling a gurney between them. One stares, the other simply says, “It’s your turn” as he tosses me a gown. A gown known by some other standard, I muse as I stare at the floral patterned sheet with no holes, but lined with clips and strings.

1430hrs

It takes a while for Dr. Ali, the anesthesiologist to deliver the epidural, much less find the correct gap in my vertebrae. I am, it seems at the wrong end of a genetic joke, having the unfortunate physiology whereby my only susceptibility to tickles is my lower back. Within minutes though, I am reluctantly experiencing paralysis from my waist down. Physically reluctant to so utterly relinquish control of my body, but, as I was to be awake for the operation, I was rejoicing mentally.

Throughout the prep, and while getting through my flesh to the meat of the matter, the surgical team share the latest gossip. I am somewhat calmed by the fact that this is one of the most common sports injuries and corrective surgeries.

Then Dr. David exclaims, “Whoa! This is the most interesting rupture I have ever seen!”

It's quiet for a few seconds as they all look at my injury.

“Can I see?”

I twist my neck to look squarely at one of the nurses who I earlier spied placing her phone on a counter in the theatre. She looks at Dr. David who I assume assents, then retrieves her phone. I hear a click and she shows me the most interesting rupture they had ever seen.

“Cool” is all I can muster, before the reality that I am looking at my own ankle sets it.

My heart rate involuntarily climbs, and Dr. Ali gives me something cold to relax. It feels like cold little metallic nano-bots creeping in from the IV, up my arm and into my head. Slowly, the table across the room starts to dance, and I remember that I am in surgery, not mortal danger. Dr. Ali talks to me for a while, and I am aware that my heartbeat is once again slow and steady. It’s going to be ok.

1500hrs

I’m sitting in Ward 9, trying to screw, bolt, pinch my piercings back into my skin, paranoid that in the hour they’ve been out, their homes would have been foreclosed. Once again, I have an audience. The nurse patiently waits for me to finish and instructs me to lie back and relax as she fixes a saline drip to my IV. I tell her I feel fine, but she insists, knowingly informing me that although surgery is over, the worst is yet to come. My wife and a few close friends come by and we all comment and joke apprehensively about the cast and the days to come.

February 5, 2011 - 0215hrs

The nurse was right.

1700hrs

I am discharged. I manage to get to the car on my own, very slowly, with the crutches.

February 6-11, 2011

Day and night blur beyond recognition.

There is an ever-present disorientation.

There is a pain in my back and neck that feel like Death setting up camp in anticipation.

This horror is constantly searching for a fault in the heavy painkillers barricade. The battle leaves me extremely fatigued from the simplest actions. I estimate times passing by counting the remaining medications and remembering what I last ate. Self pity is impeded only by the realisation of the burden I have put on my wife’s already laden shoulders.

February 12, 2011

My aunt, a medical professional suggests that the heavy painkillers I am on are actually inhibiting my recovery at this stage. I switch to a lesser medication - 400mg Ibuprofen. The effect is almost instantaneous. Within hours, I am able to sit up and eat an entire plate of food in one go. By the evening, relieving myself is no longer a desperate, daunting task. I can feel the rest of my body regaining it’s former control and strength returning. More importantly, the debilitating pain in my spine and neck is diminishing noticeably as my spinal fluid is restored.

With my burgeoning mobility and awareness, I begin to understand that it is neither my injury nor the surgery which are truly painful. Recovery is the most difficult part of the process - physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Even more so for my wife.