I’ll start this post with the disclaimer that I may regret
the decision to BWE (Blog While Emotional). But as one of my favorite ‘90s
songstresses, Dido, once said, “If I didn’t say it, well, I’d still have felt
it. Where’s the sense in that?”
Earlier this week I had a double-header of appointments in Indianapolis: my six-week
checkup with my surgeon, and my first session with a physical therapist who is a
former professional ballet dancer. The first appointment went faster and better
than I could have imagined. According to my surgeon, the range of motion in my
ankle, both pointing and flexing, looks great. My incision is totally healed. I
could stop wearing my ankle brace and, best of all, head back to ballet class. By
my next appointment, he expected I would be doing everything I could before
surgery, including pointe work and jumping. I scheduled one last appointment for
mid-September and sailed out of there.
That feeling didn’t last long. My PT's take on the
situation was not quite as glowing. No way was I heading back to class right away, and “in six weeks,” she said, “we'll
talk about pointe.”
The appointment started with a bunch of measurements, and
let’s just say that when my surgeon forced my foot into a pointed position, it
measured 110 degrees. When I had to point my foot myself and hold it there, it measured 72 degrees. I don’t have the muscle memory and the strength to
reach my end range of motion — it’s almost like my body thinks the extra bone
is still jammed in the back of my ankle.
Also alarming is that I have (again, PT’s words) “very effectively learned to
substitute” incorrect muscles and tendons to protect my bad ankle. Now I have to
un-learn those habits and re-train my body, which is not the easiest task after
a year and a half of being in pain. It’s horrifying now to think about how long
my injuries went misdiagnosed and unaddressed, and how much time I spent
developing coping mechanisms so I could continue to dance.
My PT reminded me that my FHL tear was significant — that I
need to be patient and careful because, after all, I ended up having a worse
injury and more extensive surgery than I initially thought. She gave me a bunch
of new stretching and strengthening exercises to do on my own, and I see her
again in three weeks.
I know I have so much to be thankful for, namely that I have
access to fantastic care from professionals who know how to get me back to dancing. But after hearing so many friend-of-a-friend stories about dancers going back
to barre a few weeks after surgery, it’s disheartening to feel like my own
recovery isn’t progressing as well.
I spent much of the 3 ½-hour drive home in horrible pain
(scar tissue massage, hello!) and
trying to fight back tears of frustration. Of course, in its magical and creepy
“I know your soul” sorta way, my iPod’s shuffle mode produced this song:
Yesterday, when you
were young,
Everything you needed done was done for you.
Now you do it on your own
But you find you’re all alone,
What can you do?
…You know there will be days when you’re so tired that you can’t take another
step,
The night will have no stars and you’ll think you’ve gone as far as you will
ever get.
But you and me walk on, walk on, walk on
Cause you can’t go back now
So here I go: walking on and trying to keep my chin up, in true ballet dancer style. By the way, does anyone else think that puppet looks just like Ted Mosby?
