Ground Zero

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun, and I say ....... *  

IT'S NOT ALL RIGHT. In fact it has been pretty freakin far from all right. 

Greetings. Sorry for the sabbatical.
It has been a tough Winter and, like several others in the past, I am lucky to have survived it. The recovery from The Fall was unnecessarily prolonged by unscientific suggestions introduced by an iconic Orthopedic professor circa 1970. He declared it was forbidden to walk or stand on the leg closest to this type pelvic fracture for a full three months. His view has gone unchallenged by the next two generations of Orthopedic surgeons, and reminds me of the medieval  'bleed the patient for any infection' position. It took 500 years for someone to notice 'bleeding' was not helpful.

I was told putting weight on the leg, transfers a force to your pelvis, through your femur and hip joint, precluding proper healing. This translated to the use of crutches without any weight bearing on my right side, and, needless to say, no bike riding either. The 'Theory' makes no medical sense. First of all the pelvic fracture was bolted together with two long screws and then internally belted by a large piece of titanium. It would have taken a jack hammer to move anything. Secondly, the force through the leg while standing is identical to the force your ischial tuberosity (butt bone) delivers to the pelvis when sitting. Hell, no one told me to sit with one cheek in the air as if passing gas, a skill, incidentally, I acquired long ago. While I'll concede walking could possibly deliver an extra force with each step if one bounces when moving, it is my contention, that if necessary, I can float while walking. There was no compelling reason for me to use crutches for 3 months

.
While the short lived physical pain from the injury was annoying, the resulting lack of physical activity took an emotional toll far more disturbing - mental pain being my Achilles heel. While I was able to return to work fairly quickly, it was hard to be inconspicuous, walking around the Hospital on crutches. There were the predictable queries of concern and it didn't take long for me to tire of telling the true story which was not just unflattering, but in reality, totally humiliating.

"You just fell off your bike without hitting anything or being clipped by car? Say it ain't so."
"I'm afraid it is kid"
"You just went down on your own???"
"Well....Yes."
Then, mercifully, people would shake their heads and walk away, no doubt muttering to themselves "The guy is a moron", quite the opposite image a consultant wishes to convey.

Within days I abandoned the truth and went creative:

 "I was jumped by a group of angry Neurosurgeons in the parking lot and had the shit kicked out of  me."

Each successive recount inspired more detail, along with a better explanation on what provoked them to do so. (I later noticed others doctors were steering wide to avoid the Neurosurgeons in the hallways.) The patients, burdened with their own challenges, could have cared less, if they noticed at all.

Unable to ride even a stationary bike, I had to find something physical to do. Swimming was recommended but I could not do so because of two torn rotator cuffs I was to have had repaired earlier last year, but for reasons too embarrassing to discuss, I bailed on just before the surgery. Seeking relief, I mentally scrolled back through all my previous physical passions, and eventually hit on an old friend of mine of whom I had never soured: Dirt.

Georgia Dirt Angel

I have always loved Dirt, and have messed with it in a variety of creative ways. I began manically digging  in the back yard when I was a toddler. Before the age of 5, my brother and I tried to go straight to China through the earth's center. Our parents brought that saga to a close when they decided  we were ruining the yard. I remember being far more upset by this unfair restriction than my brother, who clearly had a more keen sense of order. When under performing in Elementary school I was chided by my parents  I likely would turn out to be a "ditch digger" which, to me, seemed to be an ideal vocation

I never lost my love of the earth. Early in Med School I took up gardening and eventually completed a 3 month course to become a 'Master gardener'. I was introduced the science of dirt composition and how to best amend it. 'Dirt' became passe, the proper term being 'soil'. I know the difference but still prefer to call it 'dirt', no matter how alive it has become.

As a cripple I was able to hobble around the yard and work in my gardens, focusing on bringing the dirt to life. First I  constructed two huge worm reservoirs adding everything necessary to have them teeming with worms in short order. Charlotte gave me a small bench I could slide around on, and I spent hours removing EVERY weed in each bed. 'Compost' was delivered by the truck load and it was not much of an athletic maneuver to get on my tractor, which has both a front end loader and a large tiller off the back. Slowly I began to find my physical rhythm: Weeding, tilling, then adding  the worms and compost, working both in by hand. This was just enough activity over a long period in a beautiful setting to prevent total mental collapse.

In early Winter I was cleared to walk and even permitted to ride the bike, with the worrisome instructions not to fall off for 2 years?? I started on a pitiful recumbent stationary bike, then the rollers and eventually the real bike. With such a long hiatus, it has not gone well, note earlier allusion. Many body parts seem to have stiffened and it has been difficult to stay on the bike long enough to make significant gains. Being a permanent "geezer" seems a real threat. Perhaps I have placed too great an importance on physical conditioning, but it has always provided me with a type of grace, now gone. Once a very fit, legitimate rider, flying high and heading across the USA, I am now older and slower; literally and figuratively, back to ground zero. Spring is here and that will change.

* George Harrison  Abbey Road Inn