My previous post was supposed to be my last post but it turns out that it was my penultimate post because I fell off of a fucking rock and now I need to write about it.

I broke myself on the first day of summer break. My friend (whom I’ll refer to as Friendzone) texted me that afternoon and asked what I was up to. I told him that I was watching Netflix but that I was up for doing something else. My default suggestion for socializing is to get a drink, but this time I followed that up with “I guess there are other things to do!” He suggested indoor rock climbing.

Friendzone is a very fit, active man; he’s all muscle. I, on the other hand, am almost obese according to the BMI scale (thanks, Tamoxifen), but my chubby ass was willing and interested in participating in a social activity that involved burning calories instead of consuming them. I drove over to FZ’s place; he gathered his rock-climbing gear (of course he has his own rock climbing gear), and we drove to the climbing gym.

We signed the waiver; I rented my gear, and we got a brief orientation on how to use the ropes and harnesses. Before long, I was using my limited upper body strength to scale the faux rock walls. It was hard. I was a bit scared once I got to the top of the wall and looked back at the ground below me. “So, Friendzone, you’re sure that once I let go, this rope will allow me to just ease on down the wall?” It did, and it was fun. I climbed a couple of spots throughout the gym, never going all the way up because it was just too hard. I was not strong enough and I had maxed out my muscles on that first climb. Plus, it was more entertaining for me to watch others who were good at it, like Friendzone. His sinewy frame could scale the walls quickly and adeptly.

As we both sat on the soft floor (even FZ was tired from the climbing), he suggested that we try some bouldering. This is where you climb on a short wall without any ropes or harnesses. I went first. The “rocks” on the wall are color coordinated to help you navigate the most streamlined path, and I chose the yellow ones since they appeared to provide the easiest route. I grabbed a few rocks, got up a few feet, and I went to grab one last jutting yellow stump, but I didn’t quite latch on. I felt myself slowly tuuuurning, and then BAM! I fell on the only non-padded part of the gym. The moment I landed I said, “I broke my arm,” delivering it in (what I remember) to be a tone that was both matter-of-fact but tinged with fear.

When asked if I wanted someone to call 911, I said yes because I wanted to be prepared to treat the pain once it reared its ugly head. Friendzone stood near me talking to the climbing gym employee who had come over to write up an incident report. Once the EMT’s finally arrived, they asked Friendzone, “What’s your relationship to her?” “Just friends,” he said. Just friends.

Before we go any further with this story, I need to take you somewhere.  

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to most romantic couples. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between acquaintance and lover, between disregard and commitment, and it lies between the pit of man’s insecurities and the summit of his love. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call…

I don’t know if you’ve ever found yourself in this confusing and frustrating territory, but it is a land of alternating hope and disappointment, excitement and pain, and I discovered the farthest reaches of it…on the floor of a rocking climbing gym.

About a month before this, I had told Friendzone that I had caught some feelings for him; he told me that he liked me just as a friend (but that he really liked hanging out with me). I was 99% sure he was going to give me that response, but I’ve never had someone with a Y chromosome give me so much attention without trying to have sex with me, so I had to be sure. I was confident that since I had revealed my feelings for Friendzone, he would back off, but nope. The day after we had that conversation, he invited me to hang out. I told him I’d accept his invitation only if he promised that we could go as Daenerys Targaryen and Sir Jorah Mormont for Halloween (he would be Dany of course) (that is a Game of Thrones joke). I knew our relationship would eventually cause me pain, but I didn’t think it would lead to multiple broken bones.  

So let’s get back to that. I’m lying on the floor; I’m not moving, and it’s not that I’m afraid to move, but my mind doesn’t even seem to consider that a possibility. There are some climbers who work in emergency medicine, and they come over and ask if they can help. I say, “no thank you; the EMT’s are on their way.” I’m not in an overwhelming amount of pain; I’m just scared because I can sense that something is not right with my arm and my foot. The fear put the pain into submission, and therefore I just lie still and wait for help. As I mentioned, I fell in the only spot that didn’t have padding because it was by the hallway that led to the restrooms and lockers. Therefore, people had to walk over and around me, as if I was something as quotidian as a Caution sign. It felt as if they didn’t even notice me, and I thought, “Well if this isn’t a fucking metaphor for my life, I don’t know what is.”

The EMT’s got there. They asked for my health history. “Breast cancer and hypertension,” I said. (Damn, dis bitch got real problems I’m sure they thought). They wouldn’t be able to get a stretcher across the spongy floor of the climbing gym (the 99% of the floor that I managed to not fall on), so they brought in what was basically a moving dolly. When they put me on it, I heard a pop in my elbow, and we hoped that that meant the joint had just been dislocated and that it was now back in place.

Once they got me outside, they reminded me that I didn’t have to take the ambulance, and I’m glad that they did that because it would have cost me at least $1000 bucks. I had called the EMT’s to provide me with two services: 1) to give me medicine in case I started to feel overwhelming pain, and 2) to help me get out of the gym (since I fell in the very opposite corner of the front doors). The pain never got to be overwhelming, and they got me outside as quickly and as painlessly as possible, so they’d done what I had needed them to do. Therefore, I decided to have Friendzone drive me to the closest ER, which was at SLU hospital.

On the way there I called my mom. I told her that I was alright, but that I had fallen at an indoor rock climbing gym and that I was headed to the SLU ER. My sister later told me that when my mom answered this call, she had just come inside to take a break from working outdoors. She had felt nauseated from laboring in the heat and needed a break. Poor Mama.

I got to the ER. They took X-rays, and that’s when I was in the most pain because they had to manipulate my elbow and ankle in various directions in order to capture all angles. I knew that as technicians (as opposed to physicians) they couldn’t tell me what they saw, but when they wheeled me out to the nurse’s station, I could tell by the technician’s tone (because I didn’t understand his medicalese) that it was probably bad. The nurse gave me a pain reliever and put me on a stretcher; she told me that a doctor would be with me in about 25-30 minutes. My mom had called a few times from the lobby and was desperate to see me, so they finally let her back.

Sure enough, within the next half hour, a doctor showed up. “You really did a number on your elbow,” he said. He had a congenial way about him. “What did you do?”

“I just wanted a paloma, doc, but my friend wanted to go rock climbing. This is what I get for trying to break out of my sedentary existence.” He just smiled. I liked this doctor; he put out a good vibe.

“We’re going to have to sedate you to set your elbow, and then you’ll have surgery next week.” I did not expect that. At some point they told me that my ankle was also fractured but that it was a clean break, so no surgery was needed on the lower limb.  

While we waited for me to be taken back for The Setting of The Elbow, my mom told me that she had invited Friendzone to our family Fourth of July bash. It’s usually a helluva party, and a potential invitation to this event is how my parents measure the quality of a new friend/boyfriend of mine. Any time I start to date someone, my dad asks, “Would he be fun at the Fourth of July party?” I guess my mom determined upon meeting FZ in the ER lobby that he was worthy of an invitation, and I can’t say I blame her for extending this offer during her first encounter with him because he is truly a charming individual. She said he felt really bad, and I asked if he was still in the waiting room. He was, and I was touched by that. I told Mama to go out there and reassure him that I wasn’t mad and that he should go home.

Soon they get me back in a room. A pleasant young resident prepares all the necessary accoutrements, and we chat. I feel like I’m talking to one of my students. Then all of the other doctors come in, including the friendly one that told me I did a number on my elbow. An attractive orthopedic surgeon comes in and takes charge. My dear friend Julie, also a doctor, has since informed me that most orthopedic surgeons are hot, that’s it’s sort of a requirement for setting bones.

In situations like this (shitty ones) I like to be the clown; it’s a deflection technique that I’ve mastered. You can’t feel pain if you’re laughing, right? (actually, you can, but it assuages it). I asked if I could see my X-ray that they were looking at; I couldn’t really distinguish much, but I asked, “Now in your medical opinion, would you say that that is a pretty gnarly break?” And they laughed. “Yes, pretty gnarly.”

It felt like there were about 20 people in the room, but when I think back on it, I believe my audience included: Dr. Friendly, the orthopedic surgeon, the resident, two medical students standing idle in the corner and whispering to each other, at least one nurse, and I think someone else was looking at the X-ray. I don’t know if they had given me another sedative at this point or if I was just in the zone where I start saying crazy shit because I’m uncomfortable, but I told them that this moment reminded me of the time when I had to visit the doctor’s office because of some minor anal bleeding. It was when Julie was in medical school at SLU, and I used to party with her medical school friends. When I went to have my ass examined, there were a few SLU med students in the room, and I remember being so embarrassed thinking that I may haven taken Kamikaze shots with these people and now they were looking at my anus. Doctor Friendly smiled and said, “Well, we’re not looking at your anus today,” and the students giggled in the corner. I followed that anecdote by saying, “I don’t know how you guys work in an ER; this place is nuts. My aunt is the lead receptionist at an ER, and she has some crazy stories. Lotta people putting things in their rectum, am I right?”  “Yes, we get that a lot,” Doctor Friendly replied.

They told me they were going to give me Ketamine, and I’d heard of this stuff before. It goes by the name ‘Special K” on the street and in the club. And gawd damn, ya’ll, I tripped my balls off. I’ve never done psychedelic drugs before; I’ve always been a bit curious about what it would be like to have an out-of-body experience, but I was always too afraid to actually try anything. But now I can say that I’ve had an out-of-body experience, and it’s hard for me to describe it with any accuracy. It was as if I was floating and gradually coming down into different dimensions, eventually returning to reality. I remember the color blue. I remember a maze. At about mid-level in The Coming Down, I could hear myself yelling, but it was Sedated Jenny who was yelling and Floating Jenny was just listening to her. I remember it felt good to yell.

“I AM DIVORCED!” I remember yelling. “FZ DOESN’TEVEN LIKE ME!” MOOOOAAAAAAN. LAUGH. YELL. MY LIFE HAS HIT ROCK BOTTOM!”

As I came down into a near conscious level, I remember feeling like I was more in control of my words. “You’re gonna have a helluva story to tell your family tonight, aren’t you?” I remember saying to the nurse whose figure I could begin to discern in the fog of approaching consciousness.

Eventually I was in a recovery room, and my mom and sister came in. My sis said that I had a wild look in my eyes and that I was smiling like a crazy person. She came to my side and I said with emphasis, “This is a pivotal moment.” Clearly I was still tripping, but I quickly entered the zone of reality and asked for my phone. I saw that I had a Facebook notification. When I had rented my gear at to the climbing gym, I was told that I could get a discount by checking in on Facebook, so I did. I knew that by doing that, people were probably going to think that I had been hacked. I hadn’t posted anything in over two months, and now I was checking into a rocking climbing gym? My girl Emilie commented, “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.” And I responded with a picture of me on a stretcher with my arm and leg in a cast with the caption: “I got a discount for checking in on FB, but now this is me. I just took come Fentynol, so ::peace sign emoji::”

They wheeled me to my hospital room. I had to share it with a woman named Esmerelda or Samira or something like that. She was eventually moved because, according to my mom, she thought we had stolen her lottery ticket.

I was really disappointed that they didn’t give me a catheter (they said it was too likely to cause an infection). I had expected it because I had been given one after all of my cancer-related and breast reconstruction surgeries (I’d also always had a private room after those surgeries, but SLU is a much older hospital and has limited private rooms). Having a catheter is my favorite part of being in the hospital because I always have to pee multiple times at night, and the catheter takes away that burden. But not at SLU. This was BedPan City. If there’s one complaint I have about the care that I received at SLU, it’s the nurses’ lack of bedpan-changing skills. Actually, it was just one of the nurses, and now that I think about it, it was just one 12-year old nurse’s assistant who came in on what I believe was my third day in the hospital (and she later told me that she was new, and so I was empathetic toward her because I’m sure I would have done the same thing in her position).  

BUT, in case you ever find yourself having to assist someone in using a bedpan, here’s what you do:

1. Slide the bedpan under the patient’s ass (I had full strength on my right side, so this made it easier on the nurses since I could lift myself).
2. After the patient has peed, take the bedpan and put it on the floor.
3. Wipe the patient’s wet ass cheeks BEFORE walking to the bathroom to dump the piss so that the patient doesn’t have to stay in an arched position, suspended above the mattress, supporting herself with one leg in order to keep her bed from getting wet with urine.    

*Just like the nurses must have felt, you’ll be happy to know that I never had to shit in the bedpan because of all of the painkillers that I was taking. If my brain even senses the presence of a painkiller, it’s “NO SHIT FOR YOU!”

At some point in the middle of the night (or maybe very early the next morning? I essentially had no sense of time for about 36 hours) the nurse told me that they were going to try to get me into surgery ASAP. I slept for short chunks of time (I was frequently awakened for vital sign checks and blood draws). A team of doctors (including the attractive one who had set my elbow) came in early and told me that they were just waiting for confirmation on getting me into the operating room. Obviously, more serious traumas took precedence, and since it was Memorial Day weekend, there were fewer surgeons available. The good-looking doctor asked what I did for a living, and per usual, he followed it up with, “What’s your favorite book to teach?” I was still groggy, and I responded with a lame, “I guess whatever I happen to be teaching at the time.” He said, “Oh, that’s a cop-out,” and I smiled and said, “OK, I guess The Great Gatsby,” and the doc squad left right after that. I heard one of the young ones say, “Isn’t that the one about the guy who loves a woman but she doesn’t love him back?” “Yes,” I thought. If only those circumstances could be limited to fiction…

Then at about 9 AM the whole fam came to see me. We laughed about my Ketamine trip; we laughed about a text my sister had sent me. The movie Deliverance has a special place in our family. (Growing up I never actually saw the movie; I would only hear some of it while the men in the family watched it in another room, and I frequently heard it quoted by adult family members in edited form, usually on float trips down the Meramec River. I was about 19 or 20 when I actually saw it…and realized it wasn’t an actual pig that I heard squealing…) Anyway, if you’ve seen the movie, do you remember this scene? Just replace the word “river” with “indoor rock wall” and that’s what my sister texted me after I fell. → Funniest damn thing I ever read. Our family’s affection for that movie started with my PawPaw (who used to enjoy white water rafting), and so when I talked to him on the phone that day, I told him about my sister’s joke, and that cracked. him. up. Both of my sisters are hilarious. My other sister was laughing about that Plies song “She is My Rock” (“She fell off of a rock ock ock ock ock ock ock.”) Dat. Shit. Funny. She also designed t-shirts for me, my mom, and my other sis that say “I JUST WANTED A PALOMA.”

I guess it was probably early afternoon when I was told that I’d be going in for surgery. Another hot orthopedic surgeon (who was sans wedding ring) was going to be performing the operation. I asked if the fact that I was postmenopausal due to chemotherapy and Tamoxifen contributed to my bad break, and he gave me an ambiguous answer. I asked if the break was going to lead to lymphedema issues since I had had lymph nodes removed on that side. He gave me another ambiguous answer. However, I’m OK with ambiguity. If you’re not OK with ambiguity, you’ll go insane. 

Eventually I was out of surgery. It took four hours. Hot Doc told my mom that when he opened me up, it looked like a bomb had gone off: bone shrapnel and twisted tendons needed tending. Apparently both sides of the elbow had been flipped the other way. My left forearm is still numb. Apparently your nerves can go into a “coma” when there’s trauma.

So surgery was on Sunday, but I didn’t get to leave the hospital until Tuesday afternoon. I assume that was because it had been a holiday weekend and so everybody/everything was behind? Hell if I know. Luckily, I was on drugs and sleeping most of the time, so I was never bored. I was hot, though, and if you know me, you know I get hot. Even before I was postmenopausal, I was always hot. So my internal heater combined with a lack of sufficient air conditioning made for a sweaty Jenny. The room was made even hotter by the fact that half of East St. Louis was in there. Why? Because my new roommate had been shot by an AK-47 over in East St. Louis. Kinda put things in perspective for me. If I had had my full wits about me, I would have been able to do more eavesdropping, but I was sleeping a lot. I didn’t even have my privacy curtain up, so I’d just wave at the constant influx of folks; most of them would humble themselves and nod as they walked by, some of them offering a “How ya doin?” on their way in or a “Have a good day/night” on their way out.

I appreciated people’s texts and calls. Many offered to visit me or bring me whatever I needed; I told them all “No, that’s OK, but thank you.” However, Julie said she had made homemade rainbow cake, so I said, “Yes, please come visit me.” I have friends who work at SLU, so they stopped by. Being sick/hurt is an unfortunate yet effective way to be reminded of the goodness in others.    

On Tuesday, my sister came to spend some time with me (in hopes that it would be my last day in the hospital and she could take me home). I had two brief sessions with a physical therapist, and apparently the only thing holding me back from being released was that I needed a hemi-walker. Because of the Memorial Day holiday, there was a delay in ordering it and, therefore, in receiving it. My sister asked, “If I just go to a medical supply store and buy one, can she leave?” and the nurse was all, “yes.” So my sis went and bought me a hemi-walker and stopped by my house to pick up some stuff I requested (and on top of that made my bed and took out my trash and folded my clothes), and I got to leave the hospital. We drove to my folks’ place. The last time I convalesced there (after my mastectomy) my sister Jessi and her family were living there because they had sold their house and were looking for a new one. Now two years later, in my second round of convalescing at my folks’ place, my sister Emily and her family were living there because they had sold their house and were now on the hunt for a new one. So my convalescing is always a family affair. Mom works full-time now, so it was perfect that Emily’s current occupation is a stay-at-home mom. Em took care of me. She cooked for me, gave me my medicine, changed the dressing on my stitches, kept my water bottle full. She said it really wasn’t any different from taking care of Ella; it was actually easier: I didn’t shit my pants and I could verbalize my needs.  

I had my mom bathe me, though. If I can’t wash my own ass, then the only other person I want doing it is my mama. After nearly a week with no shower, it was time (it was actually way past time). We had a portable toilet that we’d been keeping downstairs (since that’s where I had been sleeping) and I suggested we bring it upstairs into my parents’ bathroom to help with the bathing process. We could remove the bucket and I could sit on the hole, and therefore the detachable shower head could get up under there and clean my nether regions. At first we put it in the tub so that I’d be facing forward in the shower (as one does when taking a shower), but I couldn’t angle my body in such a way to get in the tub and sit on the hole. Because my left side was out of commision, I didn’t have the strength to balance and support myself in such a way that I could maneuver myself onto the seat. Therefore, we turned the apparatus so that it faced outward; it was closer to the edge of the tub and therefore I could just easily sit back on it. That meant that while my mom was bathing me, I’d be staring at myself in the mirror that encompassed the entire opposite wall of the bathroom.

It was not a pretty sight, but I laughed: Nude. Chubby. Pale. Titty scars. Port scar; Big ol’ boot on my foot. Left arm covered in a trash bag to keep the brace from getting wet. Sittin’ on a toilet in the tub. My mom scrubbing my head vigorously with shampoo in a way that reminded me of being a kid (Geez mom, you’re doing it too hard! But I didn’t say it aloud).

I got caught up on Handmaid’s Tale. I had people come visit me. Then on the following Thursday I finally got to leave the house for my my follow-up appointment with Hot Doc (who was still not wearing a wedding ring). Emily made some joke about me using a Shake Weight for physical therapy and I couldn’t stop laughing. Hot Doc was like, “Are you alright?” and then he kept using the word “stiff” when describing what I needed to avoid in order to allow my elbow to heal, and I was trying so hard not to make jokes (What’s stiff? Are you stiff? I wouldn’t mind if the two of us got stiff together.)

Hot Doc gave me permission to stop wearing the brace when I’m at home, so that made big strides in my quality of life, especially with sleeping. He said that I could fully immerse my arm in water (read: I could now bathe independently), so if I was comfortable with it, I could go back to my house. I was ready to not feel like an invalid, so the next day Emily drove me back to my place. I see Hot Doc on July 12, and he’s hoping that at that point I can stop wearing the brace and the boot altogether (and therefore start driving again).  

My second time being back out in the world was at a funeral this past Saturday. My friend Tanya, my co-chair for The Breast Dance Party Ever, lost her boyfriend to cancer. A little under two years ago, he came to a barbecue at Tanya’s house looking like complete shit. I thought he had a bad cold or was extremely hungover. He went to the hospital a few days later and discovered he had cancer, and he later learned that it was an extremely rare and aggressive form and none of the various treatments he tried worked for him. When I last saw him at the very end of February, I got to his hospital room before Tanya arrived. I peaked in his room, and at first I was unsure if it was him because he looked so old, so I double-checked the room number. Yep, this was his room. We were able to talk for a bit before Tanya arrived, and he told me that he didn’t think he would make it to summer (he died a few days before Memorial Day). I remember thinking that if I had been in his shoes, I would have been pissed. Here’s this woman who had a simple case of straightforward cancer and did her chemo regimen and now she’s just fine and planning a dance party and I’m stuck here dying. Bitch. Again, I don’t think that’s what he was thinking when he was talking to me; that’s what I would have been thinking if I was him. My survivor’s guilt at his funeral was tempered by my broken left side. And I know that Tanya’s pain is much more substantial than mine. A shattered elbow is nothing compared to a shattered heart.

I had texted Friendzone when I got to my parents’ place after leaving the hospital (per his request). That was on a Tuesday, and I knew he would be leaving for Europe that Friday. (I met him at the end of February, and since then he’s been to Tokyo, Hong Kong, Nairobi, Kenya, Estonia, Sweden, and Germany–some for work, some for play. His life is enviously interesting). I was really hoping that he would make the drive out to my folks’ place to come see me before he left, but I didn’t even hear from him for a week. When he finally texted me, he asked how I was doing and he wanted to know if we could hang out when he returned from Europe. He was only going to be back for a few days before he had to leave for New York. Those few days are happening right now. He texted me on Sunday (the day he got back) to find out how I was doing. Who knows if I’ll hear from him before he leaves again.

In his various texts, Friendzone told me that he felt bad that he hadn’t been there to catch me; he told me that he felt like he had ruined my summer. I told him that I didn’t really even like summer that much, that I preferred the fall (I guess I should say ‘Autumn’…) and that I planned to really live it up during that season. He said he’d be right there with me buying me drinks. I told him I didn’t blame him for my fall (because I don’t). I know he feels guilty, but he feels guilty because of my broken bones. I want to tell him Baby that’s not how you hurt me.

I get it, I’m not his type (his longest relationship was with a Brazilian model). It just makes me feel old and fat knowing he’s seeking out someone who’s prettier than me. I get a little angry when I think about the fact that he’s not making an attempt to see me; I just assume it’s because he’s probably going on dates with younger, thinner women.

I believe that most of what happens to us is a result of the energy that we put out into the world. It tells the universe, “This is what I deserve,” and then the universe responds accordingly. I clearly need to start loving myself more, taking better care of myself, and living mindfully and purposefully. I think that when I heal up, I’m going to drive to the middle of nowhere and shout, at the top of my lungs,

“I’M READY, WORLD! I’M READY FOR GOOD THINGS! I LOVE ME! I’M READY FOR SOMEONE TO LOVE ME! I’M READY TO FEEL CONTENT! I’M READY FOR NEW OPPORTUNITIES! I’M READY, UNIVERSE! I’M READY!”          

*I feel like I gave my sister Emily a lot of props in this post, but Jessi deserves them, too. She came over last night and brought me groceries, made me lunches for the week, did my dishes, folded my laundry, and bought us pizza. Thanks, Ug (but you still look bad).