The Way out is Through

Lately, I have been wanting time to speed time up. I want the virus to finish its deadly spread so we can start coming back out into the world. But, knowing what I know, I have resisted this impulse. For starters, it won’t change anything. The virus will take its course. And, as we all know, sheltering in place will slow the spread and, hopefully, “flatten the curve.” So we shelter in place. It is much better—and much harder—to stay inside the day, living as much as possible moment by moment. You must learn to embrace incremental change instead of overarching, sweeping change. It can feel glacial. When one is trapped in convalescence—bed-ridden, too exhausted to do anything but heal—there is a strong desire to speed up time in order to return to as soon as possible to some semblance of normalcy. But there’s also an attendant danger of being dragged down into a state of despair when this normalcy doesn’t arrive. We get stuck in the posture of desperate waiting. 

Early on in the recovery process, when I was still in the rehab facility, the most basic exercises were nearly impossible to complete. I wanted to rip down the sign that read: "If you find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn't lead anywhere." I came to hate the sight of stairs and to feel allergic to the poorly lit maze of halls. I didn’t want to hear the physical therapist praise my effort or support me in my momentary lapses on the parallel bars. “You can do it,” he’d say, as I lurched forward awkwardly, dragging my injured legs. I’d think, Do it yourself. “Just one more set,” he’d chant. Die, I’d mutter under my breath. It was even harder doing the exercises at home. Even the simplest tasks seemed daunting. I would sit around, bored and anxious, doing whatever I could to avoid them. My aunt, a modern dancer, had told me early on that “the way out is through.” I didn’t really understand what she meant at first. But over time I saw that she was really talking about pain, and about how an athlete uses it, and fatigue and exhaustion, as a springboard to dive deeper into training. She was talking about a life-long endeavor, offering me another form of lifeline. I had to learn to push through the difficulty, the uncertainty.

I have heard people talk about how eerie it is these days to drive out into the world to complete an errand. The roads are so empty; the businesses are shut down. You can see it on the news. Everywhere, the world has come to a grinding halt. It was quite the opposite after the accident. The strangeness then came from how I felt, how I didn’t align any more to the world outside, which seemed to be passing me by. Then, I was the stranger in the strange land. Now the emphasis shifts to the strange land. I feel the same, but the world around me is different. I remember after the accident, now able to walk around my hilly neighborhood with relative ease, I came across a young man walking gingerly in the road. There was something about his tentative gait, his stiff legs, and way he held his arms out as if to catch himself from falling, that told me that he had broken both of his feet. I just knew it. “You’re doing great,” I said. The man looked up and smiled a weak smile. Pointing to his feet, I asked: “How long has it been?” The man stared at me, flabbergasted. “How’d you…?

I kept walking past the man, turning around to answer him, reveling in the ability to walk backwards.

“I broke both my feet last year, in a car accident.” The man turned to follow me but quickly stalled out. “I fell off the ladder, straight down, feet first.” I grimaced before turning back around. Adding, over my shoulder, as enthusiastically as I could: “You’ll get here! Just keep walking!”

All around me people are shifting their routines, finding creative ways to pass the time There are countless examples on social media of folks coming up with meaningful, sustaining endeavors. (My favorite is the sock puppet at the window gobbling up all the cars driving by, one by one.) In our own neighborhood, I see parents walking their kids down to the little stream off the public course. There are more people taking walks than usual, out riding bikes, pushing strollers. We pass each other with a wave, keeping a respectful distance. As for our family, we’ve started cleaning out our shed, re-organizing the pantry. Lately, I have started taking Avery on short driving lessons, letting him get behind the wheel in parking lots and empty side streets. Why not? The roads are almost entirely empty. 

Lately, I have been shooting hoops in driveway with Avery. We play one-on-one and rounds of H-O-R-S-E while the dogs bark and run about. (Our lab requires us to stop often to throw the dog frisbee for her. If we throw it far, she barks like she’s angry at it and takes after the slobbery disc.) I can still remember the first time I stepped out on the court after the accident, mincing out to the free throw line like an old man—my right leg as stiff as a plank, the ball a shot put in my hands. I squared my shoulders, dribbled the ball a few times and hoisted up a foul shot. Air ball. The ball came to a rest by a set of double doors. I hobbled over and thought of pushing them open, giving up before I’d even begun. And I can remember, further along in my recovery, how I’d drive out to the college campus to shoot hoops. Most of the time I’d have the gym to myself, though sometimes I’d have to make room for the cleaning crew to sweep the floor or get out when the men’s basketball team started practice. One afternoon a student joined me in the gym. He was the starting shooting guard for the team. He was there to talk to me about his latest paper and to support my recovery, but he was also there to shoot some hoop. When I challenged him to a game of H-O-R-S-E, he laughed. Knowing I didn’t have the strength yet, I told him he couldn’t shoot from outside the three-point line. He laughed. And he laughed again when I gave him a letter with a corner shot. But, of course, it was no contest. He ran off five letters straight and that was that. But it felt good, feels good, to be out on the court with someone. To pass the ball out and have the ball passed back. 

Despair and depression are a normal part of recovery. It’s easy to look and see it all with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight. Perhaps the most important thread in this shared ordeal is the experience of trauma—how confusing and unsettling it feels when you’re in the midst of it. Our job now is to stay awake in our lives, and to be patient as this crisis unfolds. Do what we can—for ourselves, for those around us. Whatever comes our way, the way out is through.