June 28 - Flirting with Disaster and Witnessing Miracles
“Snap!”
It was the sound, I thought, of my championship hopes being torn from my grasp and thrown away as my ankle buckled and I fell to the ground in excruciating pain. Leaving my sister’s front porch, I had placed my foot down without paying attention and I had stepped onto the edge of the stair so that the right side of my foot extended over empty space. Before I could recover, my weight shifted, I lost my balance, and the ligaments on my right ankle gave way, sending me sprawling forward into the grass. It hurt… badly.
Earlier in the year, I had experienced similar injuries by stepping awkwardly on the edge of a sidewalk and rolling my ankle. Then, simple ice and bracing had done the trick to get me back to normal. This time was different, though. The pain was much worse and the swelling much more severe. Accordingly, my dad didn’t have to work too hard to convince me to go to the hospital.
After about 3 hours of waiting, filling out forms, waiting, filling out more forms, waiting, getting x-rays, and, of course, waiting, the doctor finally came and gave me a grim initial diagnosis: “I think you have a fracture in your right fibula.”
The fibula is the smaller of the two bones that comprise the lower leg. Since my trip to the ER, I’ve since learned that fracturing this bone usually takes between 6 and 8 weeks to heal properly. When I heard that mine was fractured, I was simultaneously angry, disappointed, and frustrated. I was afraid that all my training had been for not, that my coach would not let me row injured, and that I would not be able to heal in time to compete in England. Personally, it hurt. I didn’t even want to think about the ramifications for the team.
I immediately began to think of every scenario under which I would still be able to row. If I could find the right doctor, I thought, he might be sympathetic to my cause and be willing to give me some aggressive treatment. If I can keep them from putting me in a cast, that I knew I would at least be able to train in a pool and stay fit. Given the date of the World Championships, that would give me just enough time to heal if everything went well.
Still, I knew it was going to be tough. Staying in shape is only a small part of the rowing equation. There is balance, flexibility, and technique to worry about. With a broken ankle, rowing in July with Jesse and the others would be impossible. I didn’t know what to tell them or if I even should tell them, for that matter. I definitely did not want to talk to Karen until meeting with an orthopedic specialist.
With a clunky plaster splint protecting my right lower leg and crutches supporting my weight, Dad helped me hobble out to the car around 1:30 AM for the long ride home. We prayed and tried to stay positive, but the feeling of anxiety in the air was palpable.
The next morning I woke up and crawled to the bathroom to lean over the edge of the tub and wash my face, hair, and as much of the rest of me as I could without getting my splint wet. I then called a few people and asked them to pray for me that day as I looked for a doctor. I was outwardly optimistic, but inwardly very concerned by the still present pain and inflammation in my ankle. Then the miracles started to happen.
Mom took the day off work and, by the time I made it downstairs, she had already called the specialist recommended by the ER physician, but he was not available until July 5. I contacted a sports medicine physician that I found online, but the story was the same: no openings until next week. Disheartened and worried, I pulled up Google on my laptop and searched for “Columbus Ohio sports medicine,” praying that God would lead me to a doctor who understood athletics, who was willing to take some chances, who would accept my insurance, and, most importantly, who would see me that day.
After a few more calls, we found the office of Dr. Diorio whose very compassionate assistant put me on his schedule for early in the afternoon. It was only after my appointment had concluded and I was trying to schedule a follow up visit that I learned that he was actually booked solid through July 11.
When Dr. Diorio came into the examination room, I gave him the speech I had been rehearsing in my mind since the previous night, telling him that I was a US National Team rower, that I had the World Championships in 8 weeks, and begging him not to put me in plaster so that I could keep working out. To my surprise, he listened intently and did not give any immediate protestations.
As he knelt to examine my ankle, Dr. D asked what boat I was in. This is a rather unusual question that betrays a good bit of rowing knowledge. People unfamiliar with the sport never ask what boat an athlete is in. Sometimes they ask what kind of boat we row or, usually, they make some inaccurate statement about how we must have strong arms. Anyway, I knew that I’d found a doctor with rowing knowledge, and I was pretty pleased.
As it turns out, Dr. Diorio actually worked at an Olympic training camp last summer as one of the staff physicians. There, he got to know both Olympic rowers and Paralympic athletes. Not only was he sympathetic to my plight, but he knew my sport intimately. I was blown away. Of all the doctors in Columbus, I had “randomly” found the one with Olympic and Paralympic experience in my own sport. I knew that God was watching out for me.
There were many good signs during the examination. For one, I could bear as much weight as I wanted on the ankle. Second, Dr. Diorio could twist it in almost every direction, even applying significant force, without causing me any pain. Still, I didn’t know what to expect as he surveyed the x-ray.
Then came the sweetest words ever: “I really don’t think there’s any evidence that you have a fracture.”
I felt like a kid at Christmas; I couldn’t stop smiling as the doctor went on to tell me that he thought we were only dealing with a serious sprain, that I could continue training as much as my tolerance for pain would allow, and that he was going to get me started on physical therapy to rehabilitate the ankle as soon as possible.
In a word, I was exuberant. I don’t think that I have ever felt so relieved in my life. I spent the entire drive home talking with mom about the incredible providence that God had shown by leading us to the right doctor. I also called all those whom I’d ask to pray earlier in the day to relate the news.
As I write this, I am getting ready to do another round of ice to cut down on the swelling that still covers the right side of my ankle. Today I have my first rehab session and tonight I’m going to try to get on the erg for a light piece, though I do not expect to be able to row full strokes because of my limited flexibility. The doctor’s office gave me an air cast that I have to wear when I’m walking around, but I can retire the crutches unless I am in significant pain. I also have a prescription for Vicoden from my night at the ER, but I don’t plan on filling it since I’m sure it would not look good on my drug test in August and since I’m not in that much pain, anyway.
It has been an eventful 36 hours, and I’m thankful that God has taken care of me. As I see it, this just adds another layer of complexity to my challenge, and I’m not concerned about it. I know that, of all the boats in the world, I am on the one that will be the least likely to over react to a sprained ankle. Something tells me that my two amputee team mates really won’t have too much pity for me.
All right, I’ve written too much already. I’ll keep it shorter next post.
It was the sound, I thought, of my championship hopes being torn from my grasp and thrown away as my ankle buckled and I fell to the ground in excruciating pain. Leaving my sister’s front porch, I had placed my foot down without paying attention and I had stepped onto the edge of the stair so that the right side of my foot extended over empty space. Before I could recover, my weight shifted, I lost my balance, and the ligaments on my right ankle gave way, sending me sprawling forward into the grass. It hurt… badly.
Earlier in the year, I had experienced similar injuries by stepping awkwardly on the edge of a sidewalk and rolling my ankle. Then, simple ice and bracing had done the trick to get me back to normal. This time was different, though. The pain was much worse and the swelling much more severe. Accordingly, my dad didn’t have to work too hard to convince me to go to the hospital.
After about 3 hours of waiting, filling out forms, waiting, filling out more forms, waiting, getting x-rays, and, of course, waiting, the doctor finally came and gave me a grim initial diagnosis: “I think you have a fracture in your right fibula.”
The fibula is the smaller of the two bones that comprise the lower leg. Since my trip to the ER, I’ve since learned that fracturing this bone usually takes between 6 and 8 weeks to heal properly. When I heard that mine was fractured, I was simultaneously angry, disappointed, and frustrated. I was afraid that all my training had been for not, that my coach would not let me row injured, and that I would not be able to heal in time to compete in England. Personally, it hurt. I didn’t even want to think about the ramifications for the team.
I immediately began to think of every scenario under which I would still be able to row. If I could find the right doctor, I thought, he might be sympathetic to my cause and be willing to give me some aggressive treatment. If I can keep them from putting me in a cast, that I knew I would at least be able to train in a pool and stay fit. Given the date of the World Championships, that would give me just enough time to heal if everything went well.
Still, I knew it was going to be tough. Staying in shape is only a small part of the rowing equation. There is balance, flexibility, and technique to worry about. With a broken ankle, rowing in July with Jesse and the others would be impossible. I didn’t know what to tell them or if I even should tell them, for that matter. I definitely did not want to talk to Karen until meeting with an orthopedic specialist.
With a clunky plaster splint protecting my right lower leg and crutches supporting my weight, Dad helped me hobble out to the car around 1:30 AM for the long ride home. We prayed and tried to stay positive, but the feeling of anxiety in the air was palpable.
The next morning I woke up and crawled to the bathroom to lean over the edge of the tub and wash my face, hair, and as much of the rest of me as I could without getting my splint wet. I then called a few people and asked them to pray for me that day as I looked for a doctor. I was outwardly optimistic, but inwardly very concerned by the still present pain and inflammation in my ankle. Then the miracles started to happen.
Mom took the day off work and, by the time I made it downstairs, she had already called the specialist recommended by the ER physician, but he was not available until July 5. I contacted a sports medicine physician that I found online, but the story was the same: no openings until next week. Disheartened and worried, I pulled up Google on my laptop and searched for “Columbus Ohio sports medicine,” praying that God would lead me to a doctor who understood athletics, who was willing to take some chances, who would accept my insurance, and, most importantly, who would see me that day.
After a few more calls, we found the office of Dr. Diorio whose very compassionate assistant put me on his schedule for early in the afternoon. It was only after my appointment had concluded and I was trying to schedule a follow up visit that I learned that he was actually booked solid through July 11.
When Dr. Diorio came into the examination room, I gave him the speech I had been rehearsing in my mind since the previous night, telling him that I was a US National Team rower, that I had the World Championships in 8 weeks, and begging him not to put me in plaster so that I could keep working out. To my surprise, he listened intently and did not give any immediate protestations.
As he knelt to examine my ankle, Dr. D asked what boat I was in. This is a rather unusual question that betrays a good bit of rowing knowledge. People unfamiliar with the sport never ask what boat an athlete is in. Sometimes they ask what kind of boat we row or, usually, they make some inaccurate statement about how we must have strong arms. Anyway, I knew that I’d found a doctor with rowing knowledge, and I was pretty pleased.
As it turns out, Dr. Diorio actually worked at an Olympic training camp last summer as one of the staff physicians. There, he got to know both Olympic rowers and Paralympic athletes. Not only was he sympathetic to my plight, but he knew my sport intimately. I was blown away. Of all the doctors in Columbus, I had “randomly” found the one with Olympic and Paralympic experience in my own sport. I knew that God was watching out for me.
There were many good signs during the examination. For one, I could bear as much weight as I wanted on the ankle. Second, Dr. Diorio could twist it in almost every direction, even applying significant force, without causing me any pain. Still, I didn’t know what to expect as he surveyed the x-ray.
Then came the sweetest words ever: “I really don’t think there’s any evidence that you have a fracture.”
I felt like a kid at Christmas; I couldn’t stop smiling as the doctor went on to tell me that he thought we were only dealing with a serious sprain, that I could continue training as much as my tolerance for pain would allow, and that he was going to get me started on physical therapy to rehabilitate the ankle as soon as possible.
In a word, I was exuberant. I don’t think that I have ever felt so relieved in my life. I spent the entire drive home talking with mom about the incredible providence that God had shown by leading us to the right doctor. I also called all those whom I’d ask to pray earlier in the day to relate the news.
As I write this, I am getting ready to do another round of ice to cut down on the swelling that still covers the right side of my ankle. Today I have my first rehab session and tonight I’m going to try to get on the erg for a light piece, though I do not expect to be able to row full strokes because of my limited flexibility. The doctor’s office gave me an air cast that I have to wear when I’m walking around, but I can retire the crutches unless I am in significant pain. I also have a prescription for Vicoden from my night at the ER, but I don’t plan on filling it since I’m sure it would not look good on my drug test in August and since I’m not in that much pain, anyway.
It has been an eventful 36 hours, and I’m thankful that God has taken care of me. As I see it, this just adds another layer of complexity to my challenge, and I’m not concerned about it. I know that, of all the boats in the world, I am on the one that will be the least likely to over react to a sprained ankle. Something tells me that my two amputee team mates really won’t have too much pity for me.
All right, I’ve written too much already. I’ll keep it shorter next post.
posted by Jamie at 10:14 AM
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