Just Like Starting Over

On August 6th, 2010, I was on the island of Naxos in Greece, celebrating the last few days of my amazing honeymoon with my hubby. 

We, two Virgos, who rarely throw caution to the wind (well maybe that’s just him), decided to rent a vespa to explore the island. The hotel had a rental company they used for their guests and within 15 minutes we had a vespa out front, a signed contract, and absolutely no idea how to drive it. The manager of the hotel looked on concerned. He inquired about our motorcycle/vespa experience. None. He told us we were venturing into a dangerous realm, especially on a Greek island where traffic laws are close to non-existent. I assured him I had ridden on the back of motorcycles for years... how hard could it be? He furrowed his brow and made some comment about how ‘women always think they can do anything.’ Infuriated, I jumped on and had Erik sit behind me. Whether it was the belittling I felt from the manager, or the sheer fact that I had never driven anything with two wheels expect my bike, I felt unsure and decided I didn’t want to drive. Erik, the safety manager in our relationship, was also put off.

The manager suggested we rent a car instead. And, me being set on adventure and open Greek air, pushed for a 4-wheel ATV (All Terrain Vehicle) instead. The manager again looked at me with trepidation, but agreed it would be safer than the vespa. But first, he told us about all the accidents he had seen and how the hospital in Naxos was too small to accommodate serious injuries. He went on and on about all the inexperienced people who get in accidents. We nodded and then asked for the ATV. The  reluctant manager drove Erik on the vespa to the rental shop to make the switch. Minutes later we were off on our ATV. 

For two days we had fun in the sun and enjoyed our little ATV and it’s throwing-caution-to-the-wind wobbly-ness. We loved it. It was just us two, wind against our faces, my arms wrapped around the man I love. We were all smiles every time we got on ‘Esperas’ which is what we named it (after our favorite hotel in Santorini). 

On our final day in Naxos and our last day with Esperas, we decided to take it up the mountains to see the small villages that promised hand made olive soap, homemade ouzo, picturesque landscape with a church every 2 minutes, and donkeys hanging out by citron trees. Delicious. The mountains were steep and had numerous blind curves. Surely if we were going to crash and die it would be on these roads. No horn to warn others of our small existence. 

We walked the cobblestone streets of two small villages, took lots of photos, and decided to head back in time to hit the clear waters and baking sun. We had to get back to Plaka beach where our favorite restaurant Nostimes made the best Greek food on the island. On our way down the mountain, I remembered riding on the back of my friend Jason’s motorcycle through Costa Rica when we lived there. It was always a dangerous experiment navigating those rural roads and I smiled contently knowing we never crashed. 

Erik enjoying cafe in the town square

When we got back into town we wanted to take a short-cut (insert ‘red-flag’/bad choice here). We made a u-turn and took a right to head to the beach. Seconds after, the back left wheel locked up and the ATV spun hard on the right side and suddenly, as if in slow motion, I realized we were flying off Esperas. I think I called Erik’s name, my hands now loose of my love’s waist. 

My back tailbone was the first to hit, I think. I knew it hurt, but couldn’t figure out what happened. My flip flops were strewn like when you kick them off drunk after a good party and wake up to see them in odd directions on your living-room floor. All was quiet in my head and then as if blurred vision came into focus, I heard Erik screaming swear words and getting up a few feet away from me, covered in blood. I had blood on me and all over the camera, which was still in my hand. I couldn’t move and my back was killing me. Erik stood dripping blood with rocks embedded in his feet, knees, hands, and elbows. 

Next my helmet was being taken off and some Greek people were surrounding us. We apparently crashed at the gravel entrance of a semi truck company. I remember looking at the chain link fence surrounding the hot, beige, dusty landscape. Huge trucks lurked in the background. The Greek men didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak Greek, but they offered us water to pour on Erik’s wounds. I still couldn’t move. Erik was pacing. The Greek men poured some sort of alcohol on Erik’s wounds and he screamed. I was very quiet and just kept saying ‘relax, it’s not that bad, we’re ok’. Strange as Erik is the calm one in our relationship, and I the Italian. 

In my head, we would brush off and get back on the bike (that was now laying on it’s side completely busted up) and make it to the beach in time for dinner at Nostimes. The Greek men were concerned about the gas in the ATV and I suddenly feared being killed by the thing exploding. I suddenly had the urge to throw up. This must have been the adrenaline and trauma kicking in. Erik asked them to call the rental company for us. They arrived, surveyed the situation and took the bike. Before they left they asked us if we wanted a taxi to the hospital. We were in such shock and trauma that I remember us not knowing if we needed to go. In the end, we decided we should at least get checked out. Still, I figured, we would make it to the beach before sunset.

The taxi arrived and Erik approached me to help me get up. But I couldn’t. My foot wouldn’t work. So I was lifted into the taxi and we hauled our bloodied, graveled bodies, onto the sticky, hot, black, leather seats of the taxi and headed to the hospital. 

My first sight while being wheeled into the ER at Naxos‘ hospital was the garbage pails at the end of each bed. They were filled with bloodied paper that had provided the previous patient with the proverbial sanitary experience. We were seated on separate beds and nurses came over to do our intake forms. The first question after my full name, was the name of my father! Yes folks, they needed my father’s name to admit me! I was too weak to argue about the sexist nuances relating to their forms, so I gave them my father’s name begrudgingly. 

I looked over to Erik’s bed and saw a portly-no-funny-business nurse scrubbing Erik’s bloody wounds like you scrub a dirty pan with a Brillo pad. I think I threw up a little in my mouth. She continued to pour alcohol and iodine on his wounds while cutting stones out of his flesh with a small scalpel. Not exactly what I pictured our honeymoon involving. 

As Erik was being bandaged, the doctor poked and bent my swelling foot. Ouch! Yes that HURTS. I was to be X-rayed and was promptly wheeled into another waiting room along with an old man with a very nice cane, two italian tourists who must have broken something and a Norwegian woman, accompanied by her husband and son, with an incredibly swollen, red, nose making her look like a troll doll. 

I was lifted onto the X-ray table and was left there, no heavy lead blanket to protect my other body parts. Broken in a foreign country. After years of traveling all over the world, to war zones and jungles, I wound up getting injured on my honeymoon in Greece. It was more than ironic. 

‘The foot is broken and we are going to cast it now‘ were the words coming from the doctor’s mouth, like slow motion soup being spewed in my face. Erik held my hand with his bandaged one. My anxiety was starting to rise. Up until this point I was still going to the beach (at least in my head), which in my opinion, was still top of ‘the most important things to accomplish that day’ list. Erik kept repeating that I would be okay and I nodded from a distant place where my mind was residing. 

Since there was no orthopedic at the ER that day, I was casted and we were told to come back tomorrow, which was impossible as we were to board a ferry to Athens. So we were referred to a private orthopedic. I asked for crutches and was informed that they don’t provide them and I would have to go to the pharmacy which was now closed. Our reality was starting to feel more and more like a National Lampoon’s vacation. The ER doctor scribbled a number on my Xray form and instructed the taxi. After a few minutes we were in the orthopedic’s office, with it’s stark white walls, plastic couch and jesus photo on the otherwise abandoned book shelf. The orthopedic did not speak English and he called a friend to translate. The translator was a wonderfully helpful woman who said, ‘Isn’t it good luck to break your leg? So your marriage will be a lucky one!’ It was like a script line right out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I was re-casted and told to see the doctors once I got to Sweden. The prediction was I would have a cast for 2 weeks. Not bad. The translator had more up to the minute information on the local pharmacy which apparently re-opened at 6 p.m. Things were looking up. So it was back in the taxi, to the pharmacy, and then back to the hotel.

Waiting to be X-rayed

Getting Casted

And, this my friends, is where the sky fell. We were staying at a hotel composed of many staircases, which previously never crossed my mind! My world shrank around me and I felt both infuriated and vulnerable. Erik had to basically carry me up to the room where I stayed until we departed for the ferry the next day.

Dealing with the ferry, getting to the next hotel in Athens, the airports, plane changes etc, was exhausting, difficult and painful. I was rolled around in wheelchairs, and those little airport go-carts. I was stared at constantly and at the same time was often made to feel invisible by rushing passengers and people who didn’t look beneath their noses (at the wheelchair, with a leg sticking out, approaching) while walking. It was a very disturbing perspective of what, at times, it must be like for people with handicaps. I got in the habit of staring back at people, which was kind of fun. But, perhaps the most interesting moment came at Munich airport during our transfer. As the plane was not able to park at the gate, I was driven to it in the pouring rain and then attached by multiple straps to a board (in a very One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest fashion - no joke). Two German assistants then carried me up the Jackie O stairs, while I was left feeling as far from Jackie O as her late husbands fidelity.

We were picked up in Stockholm by Erik’s parents and immediately taken to the ER. The ER doctors asked if the Greek doctors had given me a blood thinner, since I was flying with a cast which increases your risk for blood clots which can be FATAL (duh). Hmmm, nope, no blood thinner in this body (feel heart rate increasing). A look of shock came over the doctor’s face and he instructed me that I would be given one immediately... in the STOMACH. Up to this point I had not been offered painkillers and realized that I had been dealing with a broken foot for the last 3 days with no Mother’s Little Helper. Codeine, or Morphine Light as they call it here, was handed over and I was able to sleep through the night at home in preparation for my appointment with the ER the next day.

After hours of X-rays and waiting, I was put in a boot and told that I would be in it, not for 2 weeks, but 6 bloody weeks! 

At home with my new boot

Almost two weeks later, I’ve found myself completely depressed. I never knew how difficult immobility was, especially for someone as active as myself. In many ways this situation has been similar to when I first moved to Stockholm and felt immobilized by my lack of Swedish and knowledge of my surrounding. After over 6 months of building my life here - which includes being out of the house for yoga and Swedish school every day - this sudden captivity felt just like starting over. In fact, it felt like I was starting everything over. Like an infant that can’t quite do things for itself, I was left asking Erik for help with everything. I can’t even carry a glass of water! Of course readying myself for yoga teacher training in October has been put on hold. 

I was shocked at how much anger I felt at being so dependent. I had outbursts of self pity and infuriating moments when I couldn’t open the door to our building, or shave my legs in the shower. I cried, but felt bad for doing so when I thought of a deceased friend who had just dealt with much worse during a 2 year battle with ovarian cancer. In my funk, while on codeine and drifting in and out of my 100th cooking show, I had a Skype conversation with my Mom. While she provided all the motherly love and empathy I needed, she also told me my struggle, this fight I was having with my reality, was futile. There is absolutely nothing I can change about having a broken foot. The only thing I can change is my perception about how that affects my mind, my emotions, and most importantly my abilities. I actually laughed out loud when she said it because, in the end, she was totally right. 

I can work with this if I am willing to try. I can do art, I can write, I can go for short walks, I can read good books, and I can be thankful that I am still here... a little broken, but always on the mend. Like any rebirth, starting over can seem impossible and daunting, but with a blank slate we often discover our true attributes and talents. 

Thanks mom for calling my attempts futile! It may have been the one thing that kicked my moping ass back into gear.

futile

adjective

she cursed and cursed and cursed in a futile attempt to stop her foot from being broken: fruitless, vain, pointless, useless, ineffectual, ineffective, inefficacious, to no effect, of no use, in vain, to no avail, unavailing; unsuccessful, failed, thwarted; unproductive, barren, unprofitable, abortive; impotent, hollow, empty, forlorn, idle, hopeless; archaic bootless. ANTONYMS useful.