nathalie shushan

reposted from March 2019

The very first item on my to-do list after the accident was to pause my gym membership. Determined to get it done, I dragged both of my parents out of the house for the ride. I remember the optimism like it was yesterday, “Hi, yes, i’d like to put my membership on hold for 4 weeks,” while my mom stood behind me, begging that I put it off indefinitely (understanding better than i did the amount of time it might take to recover). Despite my sling, black eye and the fact that my head was literally still bleeding, the gym refused to pause my membership without a doctors note – so i said fuck it, I’ll be back in a month anyway. What difference does it make in the grand scheme of things?

It’s officially been 7 months since the accident, and I’m only just barely starting to get back into a routine.  My primary gym activity had always been yoga but, since getting into downward dog is officially how i plan to measure being 100% healthy, i’ve really had to expand my horizons, which now include: running on the treadmill (miserable), lunges and squats (miserable) and, most prominently, crying pretty much every time i step foot in the gym (miserable, in case that one wasn’t evident).

To be clear, I understand the progress I’ve made. It’s not lost on me that I’ve come all the way from needing to use my left hand to move my right hand from the keyboard to my mouse at my desk (re-read that if you didn’t get a visual the first time, it’s funny). Now I can open doors, move freely from mouse to keyboard, get the spoon to my mouth when i’m eating ice cream, wash my own hair, sip a cup of tea, lift my arm high above my head – I have gone the distance, I am aware.  These are not things that I take for granted. But then, sometimes, I see a person in my periphery moving from plank to push up and into upward dog and I am hopelessly moved to tears as I struggle to lift my 1lb weights. Or I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror attempting to lift both arms straight up and the sight of my one bent elbow leaves me heaving.

I know that these gym experiences are so painful to me because, on some level, I am afraid I ultimately won’t make it back to normal.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: everything I’ve ever done in this life has been to improve myself over time.  If i never regain the capability to do something that used to be so natural i didn’t have to think about it, that will be hugely devastating. This fear has been a major theme throughout my recovery.  On my very first day of physical therapy, my only question was whether or not my therapist was optimistic about a full recovery.  Every month, when I visit my orthopedic surgeon, i ask him if I’ll make it back to 100%. (this last time, he said “almost 100%,” which was a devastating blow despite his enthusiasm. And i can see where he’s coming from – because, taking the initial damage into account, “almost” is pretty fucking good.)

I am stubborn, though. And I am stubbornly optimistic. Despite my gym tears, which are only reflective of a fleeting fear, I believe in the depths of my heart that I will make a full recovery. I am strong and I am determined.  Before my accident, I had been doing yoga regularly for 8 years. Over time, I’d gotten noticeably stronger.  My vinyasa began to feel less like a punishment and more like an accomplishment.  My heels would reach the ground in my downward dog.  My movements became more graceful and precise.  All of this to prove that there had been progress.  However, despite the fact that my practice had evolved, and despite the fact that I’d go so far as to have called it advanced, I never elected to even try a headstand. So, while my first physical goal is just to get back into downward dog, my ultimate goal is to achieve something that I once thought was an impossible feat – to make damn sure that this too will make me better.