dispatch from my left hand
It was all yellowwwww and black and blue on the other one
When I arrived at my Jeep 9.8 miles later, that should have been enough. But I wanted 10. I wish I could retrospectively make meaning out of smashing my face and wrist into the pavement at 9.9 miles on the Fourth of July, but frankly, I wanted to earn double digits. (Boils down to your standard runner’s elixir of neuroticism, discipline, pride and satisfaction.) My legs ran past my car, and kept running until the parking lot became a paved path in Diamond Hill. As fast as I decided to do more, my legs, my arms and my face hit the ground. Curbed by the chain between two poles, I hit it hard.
It’s been three days and I’m in the thick of coping with the randomness of this injury. Coping is more like a euphemism for investigating; admittedly, trying to find an answer. Coping with something that happened in my control means there has to be a reason. Wasn’t it in my control? I’m responsible. And if the human brain is wired for pattern making; as we love, and ~gravitate towards stories to understand the freakiness of the universe, shouldn’t I know why? I turned to history because my bones have broken three other times. Start with what you know, right?
Radius, 2012 — 8th grade field trip to the Boston Science Museum. “Can you beat the speed of light?” said a message on a wall. I tried.
Femur, 2018 — junior spring of college. “Let’s try to lose 5 lbs and hit the auto standard for conference,” said an authority figure (who I respected). I tried.
Radius and all the little bones in my fist, 2021 — three days ago. “Hurdle the chain" said my ego. I tried. (What I really meant to say to myself before was, “You can accept the work you did today as enough.”)
Each of those broken bones involved moving my body. More importantly, they all involved an active agent who denied their own mortality. That’d be something to cope with, I think. But this isn’t about finding meaning. History, etymology, and my urge to find a pattern is helpless in the now; the present doesn’t remember yesterday, or tomorrow. Coping has another definition as a noun; it comes from “cloak.”
So when I cope, maybe it’s a cloak. Maybe it’s a veil and way to wrap the pain so it’s comprehensible. Underneath stories about the future and the past (and my cast), I just have a bone that wants to last and when I give it time, it will heal, maybe not so fast.
Don’t throw darts
There’s a metaphor in Buddhism to explain our relationship to pain that I’m finding helpful. Maybe you will too. They say “first darts” are the unavoidable pains of life and “second darts” are our reactions, our stories and meaning-making. We add insult to injury when we throw a second dart. The bone already got hurt (that is the “first dart”) and it’s on its’ way to heal today. But it’s tempting to add a “second dart,” with additional emotion and narrative. When in reality, the smushed bones on my right hand don’t actually hurt now. And I’m getting better at using my left hand to type.
The first dart isn’t what causes the pain, it’s how we deal with it. And I’m grateful for good friends and family and doctors to take care of what I need when I need it, and not think about it much in the meantime.
What kind of power does pain hold over us when we don’t have a story about it?
Production + consumption
Things I wrote lately
This 16-year-old RI high school sophomore was the youngest runner at the US Olympic trials - link for non subscribers to the providence journal
Things I edited lately
Rather ironically, The Steeple People by David Melly is a charming read about two Tracksmith athletes who qualified for their first Olympic Games after successfully hurdling 28 barriers.
Atalanta NYC’s debut website— it’s Mary Cain’s professional running team that pays female athletes a salary to train at an elite level while mentoring young girls. Check it out. Good stuff!
Things I read lately
The Vanishing Half, Brit Brennett— she covers a lot of ground here (race, gender, sexuality, trauma) and I couldn’t scratch the thought, “of course,” as I turned the pages. Of course there’s a story about this. How did it take so long for someone to write about it?
Things I heard lately
How Tracey Austin Broke My Heart, David Foster Wallace— for anyone suspicious of sports writing.
All for now friends. As usual, I’m open to your suggestions and thoughts!
Cheers,
Sheridan