Broken Robot
As it turns out, when I fell off a horse two weeks ago, I actually broke my neck. I fractured my C2 in two places, though it is stable and in place: I’m wearing a brace for four weeks and then should be absolutely fine. In fact, when I asked my neurosurgeon if he thought I’d ever be able to ride a horse again, he told me that I should ride a horse again, and soon. Just no jumping. Chiller horses. But to metaphorically and literally, get back in the saddle. (As mentioned, I also upgraded my helmet to a MIPS trauma helmet.) I’m set to ride again mid-August, back in Montana.
I spent a whirlwind 24-hours last week in the hospital. When I fell, I thought I was fine, because I wasn’t experiencing any significant symptoms. (For the concussion, no headache, nausea, sight issues; for my neck, no radiating pain into my arms, no difficulty breathing.) I didn’t go to the hospital for a CT scan. In retrospect—for my loss of consciousness alone—this was a very poor choice. A ridiculous choice. I walked around for a week with a broken neck, trying to do things, like pack and clean our cabin. I flew, though I let my husband carry our bags. I was in a lot of pain, but still felt like I should, you know, do my part. Because I’m FINE. Don’t worry about me. I don’t want to be a bother over here.
And I felt bad about myself. When we landed back in LA on Saturday, I sat on the couch and watched TV, eyeing our abandoned luggage in the living room. Normally, I unpack right away, do laundry, get the mail, put the house in order. I just couldn’t do it, because PAIN. When Sunday rolled around, my husband unpacked and did laundry unprompted—he’s a great guy, but this is a minor miracle—and I felt terrible and anxious about it. We even ordered breakfast via Doordash. Who does that?
Monday was Fourth of July and I stayed on the couch, watching the full season of Maggie on Hulu (loved! psychics!), hating and berating myself for letting my kids zone out on iPads while I didn’t do the responsible thing, which would have been to begin to work on my final round of book revisions.
Wednesday, I managed to snag an appointment with my wonderful osteopath, who is impossible to see (miraculous cancellation). She asked me for my CT-scan, balked when I told her I hadn’t had one done, put her hands on me, remarked I was totally disordered and asked me to get imaging done ASAP and to see a neurologist for my TBI (concussions are no joke). Long story short, I ended up at the hospital, a variation of a walking miracle. As one nurse said to me: “Someone was holding you when you fell.” I know this is true; I had already felt it. I don’t feel like it’s my time to go. (And yes, I’m incredibly grateful that I’m still here.)
Now that I’m home, I don’t exactly know how to feel. I come from a long line of under-reactors, which makes it difficult for me to understand the right response. I recognize that this is a big deal, and yet, it could be so much worse. I’m pretty fine. I don’t even have to sleep in my brace. I can’t pick anything up off the floor, lift anything with any weight, or look down, but hey, not bad considering. I can type this email. Cognitively I seem to be fine. (Just tired, I’m sleeping a lot.) I’m back to reading books. But how, exactly, am I supposed to feel?
My friend Jen Walsh calls this Broken Robot syndrome. I’ve been literally grounded, and yet I know no other way than to keep carrying on: Trying to be productive to the same standards, even though my body is immobile from the shoulders up. I recognize that this is a problem, and yet I can’t stop. (In many ways, this is what the book I’m writing is about.)
This Broken Robot is still processing: Right-sizing my response seems to be the main lesson. Finding the temerity to say things like, “Hey, I’m not okay.” Daring to be an inconvenience by having needs. Not minimizing my experience because I’m worried it would be a disturbance. Saying that awful two-word phrase with abandon—“I’m fine”—which my friend, astrologer/psychologist Jen Freed says is an acronym for “Feelings Inside Not Expressed.”
Tell me about yourselves, fellow Broken Robots. I fear a majority of women bear this badge. (And certainly some men, too.)