Just a few months after my third C-section, I found myself on a skateboard at a friend’s house for reasons I still can’t quite comprehend. Perhaps the urge to socialize after a lengthy period of isolation with my family clouded my judgment. My skateboarding adventure ended abruptly as I fell off the board and, upon landing, immediately sensed something was off.
Adrenaline coursed through my leg and into my core like a lightning bolt, and despite my friend’s insistence that I get up, all I could manage was to roll to the side and take deep breaths. An X-ray later confirmed the unfortunate news: my left fibula was broken. “You’re fortunate,” my doctor said. “A few millimeters more and you would have needed surgery.”
I tried to hold onto my doctor’s words — “I’m lucky, I’m lucky” — as I maneuvered through our home on crutches, relying on my husband for almost everything. Just before my accident, life had begun to feel manageable again. We had established a routine with the baby, the older kids were back in school after a spring of remote learning, and I had even started jogging again, a practice I cherished for its mental health benefits. Now, my husband had to help me get the baby in and out of the car, showering felt like a monumental task, and every cuddle with my older kids started with a cautionary, “be careful with mom’s leg.”
Despite my husband’s diligent efforts after work, the laundry piled high, dishes accumulated in the sink, and crumbs gathered on the floor in a manner that could sustain a small ant colony. We were both exhausted from adapting to the “fluid situation” around us. My husband, having just cared for me post-surgery while balancing work and the kids’ remote learning, was experiencing caregiver burnout. My mood plummeted without my usual outlets for stress relief: movement and rest. In short, I didn’t feel very lucky at all.
After a brief period of self-pity, I learned to push the stroller with one crutch to move the baby around the house. We set up diaper stations in various rooms, and yes, I wore a fanny pack full of supplies. While unloading the dishes onto the counter was manageable, putting them away was too daunting. I discovered that folding laundry while binge-watching Netflix was surprisingly efficient. Despite these adjustments, I still craved movement, yearning to jog until I felt that familiar rush of endorphins. “The mental aspect is often the hardest part of recovering from this type of injury,” my doctor had said. In desperation, I turned to the internet and found Caroline Jordan’s Chair Cardio. Although punching and kicking from the comfort of a chair wasn’t ideal, it was a way to elevate my heart rate and lift my spirits.
Ten long weeks later, my doctor finally cleared me to walk longer distances and ride a bike, which I was eager to do. I neglected to attend physical therapy as prescribed, thinking I could research and manage the exercises myself, especially since winter brought its own set of challenges.
Three months later, still grappling with pain and limited ankle mobility, I took my kids to a playground where, by sheer luck, I met a physical therapist named Lily Grant. We discussed my injury, and she kindly offered to come to my home for help. After just two sessions, I began to notice progress, and by the sixth session, the changes were remarkable. Best of all, Lily encouraged me to jog, starting with several-minute intervals of walking in between.
Recently, my friend’s partner dusted off his rollerblades after decades, only to take a tumble and break his wrist severely enough to require multiple surgeries. It seems the past year has instilled a false sense of confidence in our physical abilities. Or maybe skateboards and rollerblades are just inherently risky. Regardless, injuring myself while still nursing an infant who doesn’t sleep well and caring for two other children during a pandemic left me with little reserve. Without my usual coping strategies, I had to dig deeper than I ever thought possible.
Finding a physical activity that accommodated my injury and finally committing to physical therapy were crucial to my recovery. Just the other day, I jogged three miles straight for the first time in over a year, and for the first time, I truly felt lucky.
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In summary, my unexpected foray into skateboarding post-baby led to a broken ankle, revealing both physical and emotional challenges during recovery. With the help of a physical therapist and adapting to my new limitations, I eventually regained my ability to jog, reminding me that resilience and adaptability are key, especially during motherhood.