The Devastating Day That Changed My Life: 2 Years On

AI image by author in Canva

Thank heaven I had no idea what lay ahead

Sunday, Nov. 3 was the 2-year anniversary of the day my world was blown up by a life-altering injury. I’d just moved back to Calgary from England and was staying in the basement of a good friend until I sorted myself out and found a place to live. He had offered, commenting on the 2 years I had been a huge support to him and his wife when she was dying of cancer. He said it was his turn to help me. I was grateful for a place to land.

This anniversary hit me harder than I’d expected, as most of the time I’m focused on how grateful I am to be able to walk again — if not perfectly (yet!) — and even though my leg is still not fully healed, I am independent.

I woke up on Sunday and as I sat up in bed and threw back the duvet, I glanced down at my bare legs — and my deformed, swollen right knee. And I remembered.

“Two years ago today…”

It all came flooding back. A rush of images, taking me back to where I would never want to be again.

I was unprepared for the tears that followed, remembering that first, horrifying moment where it all began…

Lying on the wet sidewalk, unable to move. How did I get here?

Black ice. It was black ice. You son-of-a-bitch.

Peaks and valleys where my kneecap should have been.

Screaming for help, screaming that my knee is broken, while people nearby ignore me. And leave. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Finally, help arrives.

X rays. Fear fear fear. Surgery. Quadriceps was ripped off the bone, kneecap in pieces. All repaired.

About to face one of the toughest roads I’ve ever travelled. Thank you for not telling me…

Stuck in a heavy, metal-framed, hip-to-ankle leg-brace round the clock for 4 months. Hate it hate it hate it hate it hate it. Get it off. OFF. Not allowed.

Struggling to get myself to a standing position, exhausting. Hate getting up. Must get up. Every trip to the loo an ordeal. Every drink of water an ordeal.

Trapped in friend’s basement for 5 months, unable to use the stairs without help (and excruciating pain). So I don’t. So hard. So, so hard.

Friend (host) had just gone to Scotland before the black ice tore up my life. I can’t get upstairs and I am terrified of a fire while he’s away my first 3 weeks out of hospital. And later when he is at his girlfriend’s for the weekend or away on another holiday or playing squash or out for dinner. Or anywhere else but home and I am not safe. I am alone. Trapped.

At the mercy of another “friend”. She brings me home from hospital.

She says, “I love to serve! I will come on Saturdays to do a load of laundry, take out your rubbish, receive your grocery delivery and bring it downstairs! I love to serve I love to serve I love to serve!”

I cannot get upstairs to let her in. I give her the code to unlock the front door. She says she loves to hang out with me. She is lonely. She is glad I moved back from England.

So she comes on Saturdays. Helps me with ‘stuff.’ I give her money. Buy pizza and Chinese food and say “Thank you Thank you Thank you” as many ways and times as I can. I am so so so so grateful. She says, “I love to serve!” And “I love to hang out with you!”

I am company for her. She is company for me. One day a week.

Otherwise I am alone. For months. In the basement.

Cannot get into or out of my bed. I live and sleep on couch in big, open, empty basement room day and night, day and night, day and night, for 5 months.

Trapped on the couch in a windowless basement, not seeing the sun, the weather, not witnessing the change from autumn… to winter… to spring. Stuck in a terrible dismal loop of the same day again and again and again.

Within 2 weeks of injury, weird symptoms. Extra symptoms. Extremely painful skin, slightest touch of sheet or yoga pants is like burning sandpaper. Cannot sleep; sheet touches leg. But cannot uncover it; basement is cold. Desperate for sleep! What do I do?

More pain. Other pain. Different pain. Cannot move ankle. Cannot move foot. Not even toes. God forbid, do not move toes! Intense burning pain. Shooting electrical nerve pain in leg in foot in ankle please make it stop make it stop make it STOP and it doesn’t bloody stop. I cry. I cry a lot.

Right leg and foot are a different colour from other limbs. Many colours. Mottled. Purple, red, splotchy, pretty colours but not pretty at all. Also shiny. Odd texture. What is this??

Right leg also has tremors. Twitches. Bizarre spasms. And when my leg dances so horribly by itself, a crawling, unpleasant sensation floods through my body. What is this? And this? And this? What is all of this?

Heart. Oh, dear Lord, no. A return of heart trouble. Not had this for years. I have been perfectly well, no hint, none at all. I was so so ill. Please not again. Why now? What is happening to me?

Surgeon’s diagnosis: Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS), Type 2. Rare. Rare rare rare. From trauma, injury, surgery, nerve damage, or fracture. Oh, look! My card is full! Bingo! I win! I had all five of these from Black Ice Day! Black ice, you son-of-a-bitch.

Congratulations. You win CRPS Hell. Oh, and guess what? It is the gift that keeps on giving. It might last forever. Yay. Lucky you! Bad luck-y you! Bingo! You win!

Oh, goodie! What do I win? Everything! You never know where it’ll get you this time or that time or anytime! Spin the wheel! Round and round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows! All organs! All limbs! All systems! You hit the jackpot!

“Saturday Friend” does a Cyndi Lauper or a Phil Collins and shows her True Colours. Slowly slowly… bit by bit… weeks… turn into months… jabs, digs, insults, bullying. Mean.

Knows I have no other help. Knows I am trapped in the basement. Knows I cannot get upstairs to let other people — other friends in — and cannot give the door code to anyone else. Knows she has me where she wants me.

Typical of abusers. Familiar. I remember them.

Constant, gnawing, screaming pain. Reduces me to tears, and won’t let me sleep more than a couple of hours at night for the first 3–4 months.

Hands calloused from walker. Crutches are scary. Balance is bad. I fall once. Bash surgeried knee on bare basement floor. Scream in pain pain pain. Cry a lot. Sticking to walker. Hate walker. Eight months. Impossible to carry drinks, food, anything that I can’t drop into a bag. Look, Ma. No hands!

Unable to bathe for 6 months — and then with difficulty. Ordeal. Beats sponge-bathing.

Unable to shower for 14 months. Thank heaven. No more bathing ordeal.

Finally released from basement prison after 5 months. Still broken but above ground.

Above. Ground.

Elated.

But 35 steps to my door. Mount Everest. Just get there and stay there. Stay till healed.

Safe.

Grateful grateful grateful for grocery delivery and Amazon.

Grateful for windows. Grateful for light. Light. Daylight. Sun. Sky. Oh, sky! Rain. Birds. Trees. I remember all of these. I missed you! Especially trees. I have trees right outside my home. Real, actual trees. That I can see.

I see the moon. First time in many months. I crumble and weep.

Grateful for rooms. Many rooms. All for me. I can get to the door. I can let people in.

I let the Bully in.

I bake her favourite goodies. I make her simple meals. Even though it is hard to stand for long. I still say “Thank you Thank you Thank you” however I can.

Bully is nicer for a minute. Honeymooning. Uh-oh. I can do more things for myself above ground. Receive my groceries. Let in other people. I am healing.

She feels threatened. Liked it better when I was dependent. Vulnerable. Easier target.

Typical of abusers. Familiar. I remember them.

Keeps me sweet and being her friend. I let down my guard. She goes for the throat. Says horrible words. Horrible, mean, terribly mean, vile, ugly words.

She is cruel.

I am done.

No idea how to get downstairs to washing machine. Stairs are evil. Not as evil as Bully disguised as Friend. Rather drag myself downstairs than have her do one more thing for me. Goodbye, Bully. Keep Out. This Means You.

Ten-second walk down to washer if you have two good legs. Twelve minutes for me. And 17 minutes to get back up. I did it. I did it! Yay, drawstring laundry bag from Amazon.

Above ground and now able to let people in, a few visits, here and there. They take out rubbish as they leave. Thank you. I cannot do this yet.

Weeks pass. I feel brave. Can I take out rubbish? Back door is 28 steps. Better than front door with 35. So back door. Crutches. Rubbish bag in shopping bag. Slip handles over wrist. Slide one crutch down to first landing. Use other crutch with railing. Slowly. Slowly. Down. Down. To landing. Pick up crutch. Use both to turn. Slide one crutch down to next landing. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Twenty-eight steps. One railing. Two crutches. Three landings. Shopping bag of rubbish on wrist. Hobble to bin. I did it. I did it!

Now to get back. Deep breath. Look at stairs. No, do not look at stairs.

In my home. Safe! Less than 2-minute round trip with two good legs. Eight months post-injury, 27 minutes for me. But I did it. Elated!

Freedom. Independence. I can do the essentials for myself again. Maybe… maybe someday I’ll get my life back?

***

As I sat on my bed on Sunday morning and looked at my deformed, swollen right knee 2 years on, I raced through the above snippets — and many more terribly painful moments and challenges not shared here. It was brief — mere seconds as these memories and images tore through my mind, bringing with them waves of emotion. And tears for the suffering, yes — there has been plenty of that. And tears of relief and joy for each tiny step forward, each little bit of progress.

It has been outrageously slow, but it has continued in the right direction.

At around 8 months, I traded in the walker for crutches. Nearing a year, I could use a cane. At about the same time, I made it across the street to the supermarket. It was a goal that, at times, I thought I might never reach. I desperately wanted that bit of independence again, the ability to go into a supermarket and choose my own food for the first time in a year.

And with a cane, finally I had a free hand. I could carry a drink from my kitchen to the living room. I could carry a plate of food. Hot food, a cup of tea. A glass of wine. Whatever I wanted.

As I sat on my bed in those few moments of remembering the horrors, I looked around my beautiful bedroom and grounded myself in the present. I remembered the blessings. I couldn’t have known it at the beginning of this journey — and thank heaven, I didn’t — but there were countless tiny milestones waiting for me to knock them off one at a time.

There are still plenty of them on my list. I don’t have full range of motion, can’t bend the knee fully. Stairs are less evil but still a challenge. I walk with a limp and cannot go fast, but I can walk. Without assistance. I put the cane aside a couple of months ago. I can finally do Tai Chi again, if not perfectly. At least I can get through the 108 forms and I know I’ll keep getting better.

And although I trust that I’ll be one of the lucky ones who beats CRPS, and that my leg will one day look and be fully healed again, if this is as good as it gets I can live with both as they are. The heart stuff — I’ve had some pretty bad flare-ups. At times, wondered if I’d see morning. I’ve got it under control with homeopathy at the moment so fingers are crossed. I’m okay for the most part. I know how much worse I’ve been, so this is all a bonus.

Especially given that I have another friend whose brother slipped on the ice within days of my injury. He hit his head on the curb. He was in a coma for 2 weeks. He had two brain surgeries. And died.

I am so, so deeply grateful for all of my suffering, for every bit of the awfulness, the tears, the parts that hurt because at least I am alive.

So as I sat on my bed on Sunday morning, I was overwhelmed with gratitude — as I am several times every day when I think about how far I’ve come and how much I can do again. I offer deep gratitude to the Powers That Be and to my incredible body, in all its wisdom, for my healing.

I stared at my legs, my swollen, discoloured healing one and the perfectly healthy, strong one. I thanked the injured one for its astonishing and ongoing healing. I thanked the other for picking up the slack and working harder while its “sister leg” has been doing its best to recover. I told them how amazing they are. And how deeply I appreciate them. I do this often.

I smiled as I swung them over the edge of the bed and put my feet on the floor. I took my hands off the mattress and stood, using just my legs to do it. A feat I could not have imagined for a year and a half.

Two years ago, my world was blasted apart and although it has been a long, hard journey, I’ve known from the start that every minute I am healing. What has kept — and keeps — me going is my belief that I’m getting better every day, and that I will keep knocking things off that list of milestones.

It has been an astonishing journey, watching my body go through such a lot — much more than I’ve shared here. And I’ve finally got my life back.

We are magnificent healing machines. I’m living proof of that.