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Rehab

6/26/2016

6 Comments

 
In the 70s, I went with my boyfriend to Hawaii, and found myself sitting in the car near The Toilet Bowl in Hanauma Bay.
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So-called because of the glug-glug sound it makes when the tide goes out. An ad came on the car radio that seemed to last forever. It was catchy, but I was mystified that anyone would write a such an elaborate jingle for the YMCA.
 
This was my first introduction to The Village People (yes, I’m a clueless Breeder).
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The storied Y they were singing about, to which I now belong, is The McBurney Y on 14th St. It’s smaller now, and all cleaned up. When it was on 23rd St, it had a sort of U-shaped layout. I had a (straight) friend who lived there. His tiny room faced the women’s locker room. He threw his television out.
 
I love McBurney because then as now, you don’t have to be buff and perfect to go there. Then as now, there are still a lot of LGBTQs (the place is deserted on Pride Day). And there is still a group of Korean Vets who congregate there. Here’s a standard work out for these guys: one of them walks on the treadmill; his friend stands beside him arguing. Then they switch.
 
Who couldn’t get behind a workout like this? Still I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to.
 
Thursday night, I have an event to go to but the top of my right foot is killing me. I have no idea why, and determine to ask Danielle about it. Meanwhile, I know I’m going to be standing for hours, so I decide to bring a crutch. It’s the right decision in the moment, but no sooner do I start with the crutch than all the muscles I’ve been killing myself to wake up, fall back into a coma (lazy buggers). The next day, not only is my foot still killing me (but in a slightly different place of course), I’m limping as badly as I was when I first tried walking. What the hell?
 
I get myself to PT, take one look at Danielle and throw my crutch in the corner: full blown tantrum. Danielle tries to calm me down, but I refuse to be consoled. I’ve done everything right. I do these damn exercises 3 times a day. What gives??
 
Danielle says everything she has always said. She’s seen this before. I’ll definitely walk (and cycle) again. It’s gonna be a long haul. Recovery is full of set-backs. But then I hear her say I need to build back muscle mass.
 
Wait a minute – what?
 
Without trying to sound too dramatic, it’s kind of a Helen Keller moment. She’s been saying this the whole time. It’s just the first time I was ready to hear it. Muscle mass is a whole other concept. If that’s what we’re talking about, of course it’s going to take awhile. And God bless Danielle, she never mentions age.
 
Cause here’s the thing about age. Your doctors get younger. And they get cocky about it (like it’s a character defect of yours that’s never gonna happen to them). And the first thing they’re likely to say begins with, “At your age…”

My mother once went to a new young doctor when her own doctor retired. He decided to give her a full check up, so he sent her for a chest x-ray. When she returned, he said everything looked good except for a little dark patch on each lung. “Ya dern fool,” my mother said, “Those're my tits.” And so they were.
 
But here’s the other thing about age: muscle mass is a bear to rebuild – or even keep – after a certain age. I know this from older cyclists. They always make it to the top of the hill, but they’re not the first ones up, and it’s not for lack of conditioning or experience. So I know whatever I’m facing, it’s gonna be harder than it would have been say 20 years ago.
 
But Danielle never mentions age. Today, she takes off the “Ratched” hat, and becomes a masseuse, going over my sore foot tendon with an ultra sound wand and explaining why it’s inflamed (no matter what shape your other muscles are in, the foot muscles are always working. These muscles, and their tendons, are tired!). She gives me a compression sock - depressing but helpful - and sends me home.
 
I curse every moment of series bingeing I did, sitting on my butt in LA while my muscles atrophied – but what were my options?
 
Meanwhile, at least I have information on muscle mass, and I can go to the McBurney Y to work on it.

​I’m going to have to be a lot more patient than I planned. 
6 Comments

The Ratched Effect

6/21/2016

2 Comments

 
All PTs are not equal. When I went to PT in LA, I did everything I was told. Yet I didn’t progress much. When I walked in with a galloping case of Old lady Foot…
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(Yeah OK, it wasn’t that bad), my LA PTs - of whom I seldom saw the same one twice in a row - were completely baffled. But Danielle takes one look at my foot and says instantly, “Oh, I see this all the time with leg injuries. When you start weight bearing, the body sends fluid down. Once it gets there, the muscles say, ‘Oh, look at all this fluid. Wonder what it’s doing here? Ho-hum, guess we can go back to sleep now,’ and the blood never comes back up.” (Those muscles were having a nice dream.)
 
Ah Danielle (“Nurse Ratched.” or as I sometimes think of her, “The Happy Sadist”), what would I do without her? She fairly claps her hands with joy when my muscles get to the trembling stage (to be honest, it doesn’t take that long). “OK,” she beams, “Now we’re gonna start our reps!” I groan through our sessions, but I always feel stronger and optimistic afterwards.
 
Danielle is a whiz to be sure. But even I know, she can only do so much. If I don’t follow through with sessions of my own at home, I’m going to stay right where I am indefinitely. She’s there to teach me, and I need to learn from her example. To channel, if you will, my “Inner Ratched.”
 
Meanwhile, the irony does not escape me that the very exercises I took up cycling to avoid, are the ones I have to agonize through now, if I ever hope to get back on the bike. One thing that helps, is to let Danielle count the reps. At home, I do reps till muscle fatigue sets in, and then move onto the next exercise. That way I can at least watch a movie without having to count.
 
But walking is still beset with inconsistencies. I get stronger daily, but each new exercise taxes a different set of muscles, so sometimes my walking is actually worse. My perception that I’m walking at warp speed is cheering - until I notice I’m being passed by a texter, dragging an ancient dog behind him.
 
And there are dangers. Now that I’m back on the street, I run the same risk of landing on crutches as every other pedestrian in NYC. Children (and those who should know better) hurtle by me on scooters on the sidewalk; cyclists dart out between car lanes running the light as I cross at the green (this at 8th Ave, which has a parking protected bike lane, mind you. God forbid they should use that).
 
But the irony that is hardest to stomach is the fact that I traveled to LA for 1 month of cycling, only to spend what will be 7 months recovering.
 
I’ve suffered enough. Can’t I just sit back until I get better? Do I really have to do these fiendish exercises? But an injury is not like a cold, and learning how to walk again takes unremitting, sometimes excruciating effort. “Yes, you do,” both Inner and Outer Ratcheds reply in unison.
 
It’s called Tough Love.
 
2 Comments

I Disobey

6/19/2016

2 Comments

 
It’s a beautiful day. We’ve had - and I’ve missed – so many great ones – in LA and in NYC. If I stop to think about it, it’s actually painful: rides with the LA Wheelmen through the hills and canyons of LA, countless outings with the 5BBC who post familiar rides and destinations with smiling group photos to my Facebook page (ouch). I’ve missed The 5 Borough Bike Tour, The Blessings of the Bikes – and Spring in New York. Surely I’m ready for one small amble up the Greenway by now.
 
Danielle has not OK’d this, mind you. Last we spoke about cycling, she said we’d reassess in a week. But my walking is steady, and as long as the streets are as sleepy as they are today, I should be fine. I decide the test is hoisting Lucille’s 30lbs of joy down the stoop unassisted. All other things being equal, if I can do that, I feel ready.
 
I choose Lucille as the safer bike because of her lower center of gravity. The unfolding is seamless (muscle memory), even if she is initially “twitchy.” After waiting for the few cars there are to go by, we make our way on city streets to the Greenway.
 
Up we go, ambling past The Magic Pan
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 Past the 79th St Boat Basin
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Starlings pecking in the new grass
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The GWB in the distance under a cloudless sky. How lucky I am that this is my daily ride! Surprisingly, I do the hills that lead to The Promenades with relative ease, and before I know it, I’ve made it to the Tennis Courts at 120th. 
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Not bad for a first ride back. The fountain is working, the courts are quiet. Home at last. I’m breathing.
 
Now, I can (and have been doing) the exercise bike for weeks, so I have a certain amount of cardio conditioning.  But here’s the thing about exercise bikes: the pedaling is like cycling, the sweating is like cycling (though far more unpleasant). But the breathing…the breathing just isn’t there. Is it the indoor air? Or am I just not breathing the same? All I know is haven’t breathed like this since January 29th. I wouldn’t have missed this ride for anything.
 
And that’s a good thing, because I pay for it.
 
By the time I return to Recovery PT two days later, my walking is once again fighting a limp, the right foot swollen up like it hasn’t been for weeks and my left leg (my “Godzilla Leg”) is stressed from doing all the work. I’m expecting Danielle to be in full “Ratched” mode, tapping her foot. Just the night before, I’d emailed her triumphantly, “I rode!” I did not get the congratulatory response I was hoping for. She is miffed, but more than that she’s concerned.  “You could have been hurt!” she replies.   
 
The thing is, I know my walking is compromised. From the moment I get out of bed, that reality is ineluctable: I struggle to maintain a steady gait; walking is an exercise in concentration, a moment-to-moment battle with gravity. I’m impotent and frustrated and there’s no escape. But my bikes are like a phantom limb: because I haven’t tried riding since my fall (exercise bikes don't count), in my mind I still can. And I’ve clung to this construct as the one place where life could still be what it was. But now the jig is up. This injury is real and I’m stuck here until I get better. Which will be…when?
 
Thankfully, if Danielle is disappointed, she doesn’t show it. I’m not the first frustrated patient she’s had (though I may be the most contrite). She asks where it hurts and the length of the ride, noting my responses on her clipboard. We run through some old exercises and I learn some new ones.
 
Once home, I sink back into despair and try to remember some of the encouraging messages I’ve received from those who’ve been through this before me. After all, I had given up ever walking again and now I can (if less well at the moment). From hereon in, I will do what I’m told. And when I’m ready, I hope to ride once more.
2 Comments

City of Hope

6/6/2016

5 Comments

 
The most deflating aspect of recovery is that it is not linear. One day I’m hopeful, just about walking and the next, I’m in agony, back on crutches. The pain moves around, and my inability to get a handle on it reduces me to bouts of sobbing in LA. By the end of my trip, I’ve despaired of ever walking again.
 
But now I’m back in New York where despair is not an option. As I hobble into Recovery PT, Danielle (whom I affectionately call Nurse Ratched for her evil, targeted exercises) throws her arms around me. She promises to get me up and running fast. Bad attitudes not allowed, she says (she copes well with mine). She reassures me by explaining my wandering pain (one set of muscles hurts as it tires out, the next one takes over, rinse, repeat). It’s a rocky process by nature, and setbacks are a part of it. Then we get to work.
 
Of course just being back in New York is work. It’s more apparent to me than ever that New York is a town for the young and the fit. If you can’t be one, you’re gonna have to be the other (I know which I am). My 4-story walkup isn’t any worse than just getting around, to be honest. But getting around has its rewards: there are people everywhere! There are people on foot, people in cafes – and people on bikes.  In spite of being sidelined, I’m still a cyclist, and a bike perv at heart. While crutching around the neighborhood, I have a conversation with a Strida rider who’s stopped at a light.
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I’ve always been fascinated by these bikes and wondered what made people choose them.
 
After a brief conversation where we qvell about NY’s expanding network of bike lanes, I ask this guy about his ride (he is so busy showing it to me, he doesn’t even notice my crutch): 20 lbs. Well, that’s incentive right there; nearly 10lbs lighter than Lucille. Disk brakes – a serious plus:
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Fixed gear but hey for that weight… and instead of a chain, a belt drive (no grease).
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It folds in one step, to this:
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Specs say that takes 15 sec, but this guy does it quicker. I’m impressed.
 
Then he spies my crutch, and when I tell him how I got here, he says, “Oh well, you see that cut in the sidewalk?”
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“You have to be very careful of those. If you try to go up at an angle, you’ll probably slip. Almost happened to me a number of times. You have to take them perpendicularly.”
 
Wait. What?
 
It’s nice to be absolved of personal responsibility for my fall – how could I have known this? But why didn't I meet this guy before I took my trip to LA? Where was I? Where was he? And how does he even know this? You’re not allowed to ride up the cut to the sidewalk in NYC… Well, it’s too late now. I thank him for the information and with a sigh, vow to pass it along to others.
 
I hope you’re listening.
 
Meanwhile, after nearly 4 months of virtual isolation in LA, it’s really great to be back in a place that is navigable, even on crutches. I make up for my months of solitary by going out every night: 3 documentaries, a play, two narrative films, and an evening at The Moth at Alice Tully Hall in the first 7 days. Lots of stairs. So be it. It’s still navigable by comparison to LA where every gathering starts out with: what route did you take and how long did it take you to get here?
 
It’s not the fault of Angelenos. The rolling conundrum of navigability, a Rubik's Cube whose solutions are ever-changing, forces everyone to focus on outsmarting a system that is outmoded, overwhelmed and the only game in town. Every route description is met with fascination; everyone is interested. In New York, such a conversation would be totally dull (“Took the #1. Then I walked"), so we just get on with the evening. If you want to be exotic, you can Uber. But that’s mostly for tourists.
 
At home, my cats practically sleep on my head the first night, then run around like dervishes the following morning. It’s nice to be welcomed. And even though everything isn’t delivered (One printer cartridge? Fuhgeddaboudit), and even though New York’s approaching Summer will probably be the expected Urine Sauna, I’m back in familiar territory.  I’m back in New York.
 
It’s good to be home.
 
*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nurse_Ratched


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    Melodie Bryant is a resident of NYC and avid cycler of a folding Brompton bike named Lucille and a Scott road bike, Lola.

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