It starts with a snake, gliding through sun burnt grass in the warmth of an August afternoon. Puck lunges, and eighty pounds of dog launch into motion on one end of a leash. Force = Mass x Acceleration = Me jolted out of my daydream on the other end of that leash. My sandals skitter on the dirt. My body folds like an accordion, and my left knee snaps shut at a speed beyond the limit of a middle-aged joint with thousands of miles on its odometer. The “pop” reverberates through my body. It’s an unnatural sound. Puck licks my face. His tail undulates, dragging his whole body with it. We’ve never played this game! There’s an ominous hollow above my kneecap.
Five seconds, if that. Impossible to imagine these five seconds will become the flick of a finger against the first domino of the life my husband and I have built over seventeen years.
The young woman removes her headphones as she stares at me, sprawled on the side of the road. “Are you ok?”
I shake my head. Point. “I live just there.”
She grasps my arm, and I lean on Puck to stand. My left leg acts like a puppet whose string is broken, so I hop alongside her to our front steps.
She lets Puck inside.
I assure her I have people to call. I don’t think to ask her name.
Once she’s out of sight, I crawl to my car and drive across town, mentally restructuring my immediate future. I park, then hang on the car door, eyeing the curb and stairs that stand between me and the orthopedic surgeon’s office.
A biker in full leathers stops in front of my car. “Do you need help?”
My laugh comes out as a whimper. He assists me to the waiting room and squeezes my shoulder. I don’t think to ask his name either.
Dr. G delivers the judgement in his velvet voice. My quadriceps tendon was forcefully detached from my patella. With no anchor, the quadriceps muscle curled up like a slinky, which explains the void above the knee, the defective puppet leg. Surgery in two days. Two days to plan. I’m at our second home in Crested Butte, Colorado. My husband is at our real home, five hours away, silently awaiting my apology for whatever perceived grievance has caused this current estrangement, sending me running here with our dog and two cats.
I’m not ready to apologize.
Back in my house, I text my two best friends in Crested Butte, then turn off my phone. My leg throbs beneath the tightly wrapped bandage and robotic brace. I cry myself to sleep, ensconced in a bubble of self-pity.
Ascending our wood stairs backwards on my butt the next morning, I give myself a mental pep talk. I’ll have to be creative. The warm coffee cup is comfort in my hands. The mountains are hazy purple silhouettes heralding the sunrise. I wake up my phone and barely make it past the first text before tears are streaming down my face.
Girl, we got you.
Carol will take you to surgery.
Sandy will pick you up.
Jenny is bringing food.
I’ll keep Puck this week.
I will text my husband later that day. He will offer to take Puck. I will reply, “No, thank you. I’m fine.” My community in Crested Butte will help me through months of recovery. I will borrow a handcycle and pedal down dirt roads with Puck running alongside. I will crutch around my kitchen with ingredients stuffed in a dog carrier I’ve repurposed, like a mother kangaroo and her pouch. I will do one-legged burpees at CrossFit.
I will understand how important these women are to me and hope to return their grace and generosity in the future.
I will not be ready to give up on my marriage, to fold the map of the miles we’d covered together, to turn away from the slide show of beautiful moments that, for me, depicted our life. The second domino is teetering but I don’t yet understand it will soon fall, and the rest will cascade behind it.
The next time I run to Crested Butte, I will be ready.
These women will wrap me in their strong arms. They will hold me up.
