My friends always asked why I kept myself so busy. I wasn’t sure why I joined so many clubs, had a job, a leadership position, a sport to play. All I knew was that I loved a full schedule, with a list to follow and tasks to complete. My bullet journal sat on my desk, waiting each day for me to caress its pages and check its boxes. It loved when I fulfilled my plans. I loved it, too. I loved knowing what was to come.
Then, my life was upturned. All of my plans were erased, the once permanent ink suddenly whisked from my journal’s pages. The day before volleyball tryouts, my to-do list lay open on my desk, anticipating its completion. As I slipped my knee pads on, I scanned the pages excitedly, my eyes pointing to the one thing I had worked toward for so long.
Tuesday:
- Tryouts, 7-9.
The box endured, unchecked for days after. Months after. Inevitable.
—
I felt a pop. I didn’t see where my hit went, because I fell. I crumpled like the pages of my journal. I stared at the ceiling as the pain overtook me, my eyes overflowing with a substance that had been waiting so long to be released. My pages blurred. I was happy. I had been inspired, excited for what was to come. I liked being busy.
Lying there on the hardwood floor, I knew it was over. The blow was something unimaginable, sharp like a razor. Like a means to an end. My knee ripped like paper and my spirit went with it.
Two days later, the orthopedist told me he had to take fluid out of my knee. I had been on crutches since the night of my injury, waiting for more information to determine what was unknown, to tell me what to expect. I hated surprises.
My breath trembled and my good leg shook as I sobbed into the phone, my dad comforting me from the other end of the line. This wouldn’t be like the medical experiences I had before, he reassured me. The pain would be brief and my skin would be numbed. In fact, I would feel relief, just like the doctor said.
I listened to the doctor as he told me to lay down, hold the nurse’s hand, and look away.
—
“It’s both therapeutic and diagnostic,” he said. “It will relieve pressure and therefore pain, first of all. And for me, I know that if it’s clear or straw-colored, you won’t need an MRI, and we can likely treat it with therapy. If it’s bloody, it means something deeper has likely been damaged, and I’ll have to see what needs to be fixed.”
First, I cried from the pain.
It didn’t last long; the needle only penetrated for a few moments, only tore a small hole in my presence. The unpleasant sensation was over after a minute. I had been laying down, not seeing what the doctor extracted, but after I heard the quiet mutter exit his mouth, I knew everything would change.
“She’s going to need an MRI,” he said to the nurse. I glanced at the metal tray, and the vial of blood told me all I needed to know. It was the red ink that crossed off all of my plans.
After the pain subsided, I cried for my future.
—
I wasn’t surprised when the doctor told me that I tore my ACL and would need surgery.
“A full tear can’t just be sewed back together,” he said. “Like a rubber band, once it snaps, it won’t become elastic again.” I would have a piece of my quad tendon form my new ACL, and in 9-12 months, I would play again.
9-12 months.
The news hit me like a truck. I cried every day, angry at the world, angry that I was so human and so fragile and so unlucky. I cried for the future I thought I would have and the memories I thought I would make. I cried for the team I would not be a part of and for the 7 weeks I would miss my friends.
What I’ve finally realized, though, is that the tree I am made from will grow again.
I was torn to shreds, everything I thought I was, burned to the ground in an instant – but I will be remade. I will be who I thought I would be the day before tryouts. I will be an athlete, a team member; the supported and a supporter. I will be strong again.
Only time will tell.