The road to recovery felt unending, like some foggy path running through a dark forest. The ER doctors predicted I’d be off the mats for a year or more. My surgeon, Dr. Haraszti, estimated a few months. My stubborn head estimated a few weeks. Time, then, became fluid in regards to my recovery. I was here and somewhere, at the end of some indeterminate time, I’d be recovered and likely still mending scars (literally and figuratively).
I knew, no matter what, I’d push myself earlier than expected, that I’d be back at the gym to keep myself off the couch and charging forwarding with my rehab to bounce back into jiu-jitsu as soon as I could. Competition, though, still felt eons from now. To complicate matters, my blue belt still felt fresh, the paint still drying on my once dingy white belt. Returning from a major injury with the rawness of a new belt combined into dark, billowing storm clouds on the horizon. For now, though, I concentrated on healing.
##
I’m curious about bodily functions. Not so much shit, piss, and babies…but more along the lines of surgeries and healing and scars. I travel rabbit holes of surgery videos and pictures, spiraling down into the morbid aspects of medical and biological healing. My own maladies are not immune to these curiosities as I saved a picture of how bones heal, including week-by-week breakdowns.
In week 1 a hematoma forms around the site. The metal plate and screws help the bones remain in place while the fractured ends stay in contact with each other. Inevitable swelling builds and spreads as my body reacts to the trauma of both the surgery and the healing. Discoloration oozes down my arm like a polluted river, collecting in my fingers, and making my hand appear cartoonish. As my upper arm atrophies with the splint covering my forearm, the differences between my hand and bicep gives me the appearance of some Frankenstein monster made of bits and pieces of different people – one skinny and one extremely plump.
We stayed abreast with Ibuprofen to ease the pain, but icing my arm proved difficult without constantly unwrapping my splint. I held an icepack on it in for a few minutes in the morning, during my 30-minute lunch break at work, and off-and-on in the evenings, but realistically that was never enough. The swelling continued. My splint filled with my distended flesh and bruising until pressing on my surgery site and causing an uncomfortable ache despite the Ibuprofen doses. To alleviate the swelling, I slept with my arm propped and my fingers pointing towards the ceiling. This led to tingly fingers by midnight, but did help migrate the swelling and bruising back towards my body to ease the burden on my hand.
At work, I primarily used my left hand while my right arm rested in my lap. Typing and using a mouse and a touch screen, all with one arm, necessitated the need for shaking out the fatigue setting into my left shoulder. It didn’t help that I drove about 30 minutes to and from work each day, easing my way into the right-most lane and holding steady at 60 mph on the highway. My left arm gripped the wheel with a death hold while my right arm uselessly rested on my lap. Cars zoomed around me, easily surpassing 70 mph in the outer left lanes (this was Atlanta, so probably hovering near triple digits). I muttered a constant chant, begging the gods of BJJ injuries that I wouldn’t need to switch on the windshield wipers and/or turn signal while under duress or simply need to maneuver with any speed.
I didn’t go to the academy during this week. Instead, I chose to sit at home and watch TV or simply go to bed early as I chased depression sleep. I grew lonely because I missed my jiu-jitsu family. I missed rolling and training. I missed sleeping beside my wife. Hell, I missed being able to shower without Rachelle helping me in and out of the tub and assisting in scrubbing me down before the hot water ran out and I’d be stuck dancing in cold water and trying not to yell at Rachelle as I grew frustrated.
This first week moved both fast and slow. Moments of discomfort dripped in slowness, second-by-second of building aggravation or pain or loneliness. Other times, the days added up as the bruising and swelling peaked and started subsiding. Percocet fevers disappeared. Adjustments to being temporarily handicapped became semi-routine.
##
By weeks 2 and 3 a soft callus forms around the fracture site. The swelling peaks and starts subsiding. Movement returned to my fingers. I could grip, although lightly as any amount of squeeze pressure pulled on my healing ligaments and bone, sending an eerie feeling up my arm as if the callus would pop and send my bones flying away from each other in a shower of calcified shrapnel. We ceased the steady dose of Ibuprofen and only took them sparingly. Sleep still came in patchy moments throughout the night as I could never find a comfortable pose or position for my arm. I slept due to fatigue more than anything, stealing naps when I could. At lunch, I set my phone’s timer for 30 minutes before resting my head on my splint and closing my eyes.
In the mornings, I started going to the gym, but sat on the spinning bike or walked on the treadmill before growing bored. I designed a few workouts where I relied on weighted machines that worked my legs, core or upper body in ways that didn’t require the use of my right forearm as a lever. Really, though, these workouts were a shadow of my usual routine and I ended up at work by 0600. At least this allowed me to leave a bit earlier and get home at 1500 to take a nap. Because of this lack of exercise, I feared growing soft and flabby. Yet, my appetite suffered as well and I came home without eating a few of my allotted daily snacks.
Driving incrementally became easier as I was able to touch the bottom of the steering wheel with the fingertips of my right hand. This allowed a few seconds for my left to flicker a turn signal or flip the windshield wipers on. I still kept to the right-most lane and hoped I didn’t have to change lanes or deal with sporadic downpours of rain. I still avoided any music, in case I was tempted to click to the next station or fast forward a song. Instead, the steady hum of tires on concrete accompanied my drives. I continued to mutter words of self-encouragement (“I can do it, I can do it…”) throughout my commutes, urging me on like some train engine.
I still required Rachelle’s help to shower, but only after getting most of my body clean and needing just a few spots to be lathered and rinsed with assistance. We fell into a nice rhythm for dressing that, day-by-day, I adapted to using one hand and the fingers of the other. It became a personal triumph to slide underwear or socks or pants or even a t-shirt on without Rachelle’s help. (TMI warning.) Since the injury, I sat to go to the bathroom, no matter my needs. I learned to wipe left handed and all the uncoordinated shenanigans that entailed. By now, we rewrapped and cleaned my right arm a few times to keep the site clean. I never looked at it, as it still made me queasy and the room to spin when we started unwrapping it, but Rachelle proved gentler as she learned how to handle my wounded arm without forcing shooting pain across my arm and body.
I don’t know if we fought much during these weeks or if I snapped at her from pain, aggravation, fatigue or fear. I probably did, but mostly I remember little triumphs and being tired, worn-out from lack of sleep and the mental drain of a major injury. I remember more time together, the two of us, which BJJ had limited. I admit to enjoying this time, as it reminded me of days in Alaska or Seattle. We don’t value leisure time if it’s always there, but we value it when it becomes a luxury in our busier lives.
I attended BJJ classes on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I sat on plastic folding chairs that lined the mats. I stayed for the techniques in both the intro and regular classes. Sometimes I texted Rachelle notes on the moves, little details I picked up or simply to log what we did that day. I tried sticking around for rolling, but it proved both boring and aggravating at the same time. I wanted to be out there and there was only so much rolling you could watch when you can’t participate (I feel the same about watching competitions that I’m not invested in).
##
By week 4, a hard callus forms. For the next 12 weeks or so, this callus hardens and recedes. This is when the bone is coming together and restructuring. I knew this from past experiences with hairline fractures and a long-ago education in bones. Of course, this is exactly when people start to “feel better” and push themselves too early and too far. The fracture, still soft and forming, could still break again quite easily. In fact, this “hard callus” is fairly soft for a bit; not the hardened and calcified bone we normally expect. Even with the metal plate and screws, I’d be gambling by even doing curls or push-ups or anything that used my forearm as a lever or load bearing.
Years ago, even before knowing Rachelle (there was a time), I broke my hand. This was right after college and I had suspect (if any) insurance. My mom helped me pay for the medical costs, but I tried cutting corners at all costs. After five weeks of being in a hard cast, instead of going back to the doctor, I searched around my step-dad’s garage for a metal file. I hacked away at the plaster until I could wiggle my arm free. I searched the internet for hand, wrist, and finger rehabilitation exercises and did them religiously as I returned to a fairly normal life. Life did return to the ordinary and never had any issues with taking my health into my own hands. Rachelle knew this story and knew I was growing impatient in my splint.
This time, at around 5-6 weeks after surgery, I was due for a check-in with my doctor. I didn’t expect much except to be x-rayed, re-splinted, and sent on my way. When I returned for my check-up, my previous x-rays hung on the wall of the examination room. The nurse unwrapped my arm, placing the gauze and wrapping and splint aside on a chair. She wiped off my pale and shriveled forearm, leaving it resting on my lap. Black stitches crisscrossed my arm for about 9.” This was the first time I saw my surgery site. Hair and dried blood and flakes of iodine still clung to the stitching.
The nurse led me to the x-ray room. I held my arm like some fragile pottery, never letting it hang or move on its own. We placed it under the x-ray arm, resting it on a pile of curved padding. They took pictures at various angles, trying to get a 360 view of my bone. I overheard the x-ray technicians chattering. It was looking good, very good. Before walking back to the room, I glanced at the screen and saw my bone. I didn’t get a chance to squint at the fracture site, but at least it started looking whole and not the jagged, floating pieces it once was.
Back in the examination room, my fingers walked across my arm. I felt the plate and a few screws poking out the far side of my bone. I’m petite, after all, and didn’t have much substance to hide my hardware. Dr. Haraszti entered with a medical student. Introductions spread across the room as they looked at my newest x-rays, comparing them to the old ones. They both nodded a lot and pointed to the fracture site. Dr. Haraszti sat, grabbed my arm, and asked if any of his firm probing hurt. He especially concentrated on my wrist, where it was once dislocated. I answered in the negative until he probed the fracture site. It felt weird, like a deep bruise that shot up my arm.
“That’s to be expected. It’s still softer in there, but feels stable.”
With colder hands, the medical student did the same with similar results.
Next, they asked me to squeeze their forearms. This proved difficult as my fingers had stiffened from immobility. Dr. Haraszti nodded.
“You’ll need some PT to get that going again, but shouldn’t be a big deal.” Then speaking more toward the medical student than me, Haraszti continued, “We’ll have him put the splint back on for another couple of weeks and then reassess.”
They left the room and I sat, staring at my empty splint and arm. I felt a little deflated. I’d be back in the splint for at least two more weeks and then who knows. I’d held out hope that this was it, free of the burden of a shoulder strap and a bulky protective layer between my arm and the world. I hoped to start being able to rehab my arm and start easing back towards training. I also wanted to be conservative, not push myself too far and too fast.
The nurse came back in. She held a box, gloves, a pair of scissors, and some alcohol wipes. I figured she’d be measuring my bandages and creating a new splint for me. Instead she sat next to me, took my arm in her lap, scrubbed the site again, put on gloves, and then started cutting away my stitches. My eyebrows scrunched together in confusion, but I said nothing. Tiny, black threads collected on her lap or fell to the floor. My surgery site started looking like an arm.
After she finished, she returned to the countertop and pulled out a black soft cast. Laces ran up and down one side like a woman’s corset. On the far side it resembled a 80s biking glove where my fingers were exposed, but my forearm and hand were covered. She loosened the laces until we could slide it over my arm. She pulled the laces tight and then sealed the Velcro closure along the top strap.
“Doc says you should wear this for at least two weeks. Then you can start taking it off periodically.”
She handed me a sheet of paper with a long list of physical therapists running along the front and back. “Let us know which place you plan to go to. We recommend somewhere close to where you live or work. They’ll start loosening up your hand and wrist. Your insurance will cover it.”
All of this was happening fast. She grabbed my old splint and bandages and tossed them in the trash.
“Do I need a follow-up appointment?”
“Not unless you think you need one. We recommend keeping the hardware in for a least a year, but otherwise it’s up to you. You should be able to drive now.”
I said nothing, wondering what she’d say if I told her I’d been driving 20+ miles a day. It never occurred to me not to go to work or try to live my life as much as possible. I guess that’s what people do when they’re horribly injured, but it simply never occurred to me. Instead, I kept living as much as possible.
In my car, I sent pictures of my arm and soft cast to my wife. We’d made it through the hardest part.
##
Little wins added up each morning. I slept in the soft cast, tucking my arm against my body to protect it. Sometimes I rested it on a secondary pillow as if it were a sleeping bird. After a couple of nights, we deflated the blow-up mattress and I returned to sleeping in the same bed as my wife. My loneliness and isolation started disappearing, fading with each night’s dreams.
In the shower, each day became easier to wash myself. I could passively hold the soap in my right hand while my left hand pushed my right arm around (as needed). I sat down on the toilet to assist in getting my pants or a hoodie on, but otherwise I dressed myself. Granted, I still couldn’t grip very well, so toweling off left streaks of moisture across my back and left side. Still, though, this was progress.
With time, I dressed normally, learning the basic mechanics of pulling up my pants or fastening a button or tying a shoe. The intricate movements of fingers fascinated me when I lost those abilities or at least it hurt to try. We learn so much as humans, taking them for granted later in life until we lose those abilities. Simply brushing my teeth or washing my hands or inserting contact lenses became a new learning experience, small triumphs in my return to the ordinary.
I started rehabbing my hand and wrist on my own. I stretched my fingers and cycled through PT exercises I found online. Each day, each rep, each cycle led to a larger range of motion. 10% quickly became 50%. 50% moved to 70%, albeit it plateaued here for a bit. I pushed myself, really sinking into the stretching portions of the routine. I imagined scar tissue flaking off like rust or atrophy creaking through the ligaments like an old hinge being lubricated. I kept at it until 70% moved to 90% and a few extreme movements lingered beyond my abilities. I found myself at work or driving or watching TV, cycling through my exercises. A dozen times a day, I worked my hand, my fingers, and my joints. I bought stress balls of varying resistance. I worked through them – light, medium, hard – and created a mini-workout for my hands and fingers. That’s when the 90% started creeping upwards.
At the gym (where weights and cardio machines live), I implemented routines that resembled my pre-injury circuits. As my wrist loosened up, I could jump rope or work the rowing machine. I could hold most bars or kettlebells or dumbbells, although with reduced loads as my wrists, forearms, and biceps screamed at me when I pushed them beyond the last few weeks’ atrophy. I’m sure I looked pathetic, struggling through 5-10 push-ups before collapsing to the ground, taking a few breaths and going for another set. It didn’t matter, I was on the mend. Each day, each workout, each PT session was a step back to a normal life.
I drove with the soft brace on for a few days. When I took it off to drive, my wrist hurt and my healing bone ached if I gripped the wheel, torqueing left and right, for too long. As my rehab progressed, though, I took it off to drive and worked my way up to more and more responsibilities for my right arm. First it was to guide the wheel, holding it steady while my left hand signaled a turn or activated the wipers. One particular day with a torrent of rain hitting the Mini Cooper, I remember activating the wipers with my right arm. I didn’t think about, it just happened. The babying portion of my rehab starting to fade as instincts returned to having two functioning arms and hands.
I did return to activity in the academy. With the soft brace still on, I participated in the conditioning class. Sam modified some of the exercises for me, allowing me to perform plyometric exercises and the like without relying on my upper body. I warmed up on the stationary bike, hitting Tabata intervals for a round. Then I transitioned to lunges, jumps, hops, and short sprints. Just like before, I made it to the academy every day for these sessions. Then I stuck around for the classes and watched the techniques.
After a week or so, I put on a Gi again. I only drilled the technique, still wearing my soft cast, and then sat out the rolling portions. Time ticked away and I kept rehabbing, pushing myself towards the end goal of setting aside the soft brace and working out and rolling in the same way I did before the injury.
##
I remember the first time I broke anything enough that I wore a cast. I remember the itchiness as my bones healed, wrapping the limb in a bag with a rubber band on one end in order to shower, bumping glasses and plates and silverware as I forgot about the extra width of my arm, and one time trying to pull a pizza out of the oven and realizing how quickly the plaster heats up. After a few weeks though, you adapt your life, your habits, and your approach to the mundane. You overcome in the temporary inconvenience.
This time, I adapted three times. The first was the temporary splint prior to the surgery, my bones still fractured and floating in the meaty space of my arm. Pain and potential danger lingered in the forefront of my actions and adaptations to my injury. The second time, I learned to deal with a different splint, as my arm swelled and started healing around the surgery site. It was bulky and uncomfortable and frustrating. My patience wore thin as I never found an efficient way to sleep or bathe or hit some of the basics of the hierarchy of needs.
The final phase was the soft cast. After about a week, it felt more like training wheels than anything. As my wrist and hand and fingers loosened up, as my life teetered towards normalcy, I wore the brace less and less. After 2-3 weeks, I didn’t even really want to wear it except for when I wasn’t sure I could control my arm’s movement (usually sleeping). Other than that, it stayed on my nightstand or forgotten in my backpack or simply cast aside (pun intended) entirely.
I wore it to the academy as I started drilling the moves of the day. It served as a reminder for myself and my partners. It kept me in check, tapping the brakes on my desire to jump back into training and the routine I pursued prior to the injury. I wasn’t sure when the right time would be to start rolling, but I imagined another month or two, to allow myself to ease back into the swing of things. At least long enough before Rachelle wouldn’t frown at me before I left for jiu-jitsu class and remind me to be careful and smart.
One day when drilling with a smaller white belt (about my size), he asked to roll with me and promised to take it easy. Despite him being maybe two stripes, I knew he wouldn’t spazz out or take this chance to tap a blue belt. In short, I trusted him.
So I pulled off my soft brace and set it by my shoes. I grabbed my belt with my right hand and then we bumped fists. He hesitated, as he was a white belt. I hesitated as I was figuring out how to grip or play any semblance of a guard with one arm. I don’t remember any particulars beyond that initial bit, but I remember using my feet to pummel in, framing with my left or finding a collar or sleeve to control and flipping in a DLR hook with my left leg. No one tapped anyone in that roll and I don’t think there was much in the way of pretty jiu-jitsu, but I survived. I kept moving and kept working with what I had available.
Then I went with a veteran blue belt known to flow rather than death roll. Then I went with my BJJBFF. All the while I started trusting my right arm a little more. Maybe I grabbed a collar or sleeve with my right. Maybe I created an elbow-centric frame. Maybe I used it to shrimp or post off the ground to spin back to a guard. I’m sure it all resembled some sort of jiu-jitsu and definitely with an early blue belt rawness, but at least I survived my first night of rolling after the injury.
When I returned home, Rachelle was asleep (per usual). She woke up when I slipped into bed.
“How was it,” she asked.
“I rolled a bit. Safely of course. With Corey and Stuart and Matt.”
“Oh good. I was wondering when you’d get back into it.”
That was it, I was ready to get back to training again.
##
During this period, I remember little moments in time. Not necessarily part of the healing process, the mental journey of recovery, or the endless reminders of how much Rachelle loves me. More about tiny moments of awareness of the injury in relation to life, my jiu-jitsu journey, and the sense of community or belonging stemming from the academy.
I remember talking with one of our black belts, Derek. We sat on the academy couches. A pile of Jiu-Jitsu magazines lay on the coffee table between us. He just finished teaching the kids class and his son and daughter ran around gathering their belongings. I sat on the other couch, my legs curled under me as I stretched my hand and arm and wrist. I waited for the fitness class to start so I could at least sweat a little before watching the technique classes.
I talked about the checklist of quitting. Decent competition success. Newly promoted blue belt. Major injury. Other things – a career, a wife, other hobbies (whatever those are) – in my life to fill that void. Except for a major life change – marriage, a baby, a major promotion or career change, a move – all the factors were there, laid out like the magazines on the coffee table, for me to legitimize quitting. Millions of others have done it before (or probably closer to thousands). It’s okay. It’s not the end of the world. Life moves on.
Yet here I was, sitting on the couch, warming up my arm so I can try to work the battle ropes and maybe some push-ups. Here I was at the academy, keeping a semblance of the routine I started and maintained through my white belt days. Here I was hoping to come back, sooner rather than later. Here I was.
##
I remember early in the process, maybe a couple of weeks after surgery, our mats were full. Condensation lined the windows and walls. Steam lingered along the mats. Coming in as an outsider, I never saw this angle of training. As part of it, I typically eased into the depths of the sweat and smell and smog of hard training. Coming in later, part of a surprise celebration, I walked into the thick layers and knew this was my spot. It didn’t disgust me, as it should have. Instead, I missed it.
A handful of promotions occurred that night. I can’t remember all of them, as there were at least a handful. I remember a couple of my training partners, heroes, and favorite teammates were promoted. Mandie received her purple belt. She taught me to never concede an inch and to continuously fight for position; that it’s okay to be small-framed, but fierce. You can be tough, without being a douchebag or mean. You can rely on technique to conquer all.
Hannah received her blue belt. She started about a month after I did. We received all our stripes within lockstep of each other. Here we were, though, again tied at blue belt (zero stripes). I considered and still consider her my BJJ twin sister.
Sitting on a chair, watching their smiles and the congratulatory hugs and handshakes, it reminded me of the community I was part of. The sense of family and celebrating each other’s achievements as if they were our own. This is what I would’ve been giving up, if I gave into the temptation I described to Derek. That moment, filled with the joy for others, reminded me that I always had a place at Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu.
##
Somewhere in there, not sure when and definitely after my surgery, my teammates Kenneth (a brown belt at the time) and his wife, Keiko (a white belt at the time) invited us over for a Japanese brunch. I felt useless as I sat on a chair and tried to eat with one arm. They understood and made offerings that required a spoon or fork. We ate roasted meats, eggs, soups, and veggies. All flavored differently than I expected, but all amazing.
What struck me, though, was sitting around a table and chatting about life. Yes, we talked about the injury and how it was going. We talked about training (inevitably). We shared funny stories about bathing myself and sadder stories like the first weekend where Percocet hit me harder than intended. We talked about work, travels, and our lives in the past and in the future. In short, we just hung out, the ways friends do. We ate. We drank. We had fun. I’d never have found these people without jiu-jitsu, without Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu, without the sport bringing out who I want to be and always was.
Although I sat there, broken and healing, it’s at this moment that I realized I was part of something…a family, a community. Two things I’ve always lacked in my life, thinking I didn’t need them, but here they were filling a void that I never knew I had. This is Jiu-Jitsu.
