It's the moment that we hope won't happen to us.
We hope that the Derby gods will show us favour and spare us
that split second, bone shattering event that will take us out of the game.
We've all had the close calls - those moments where you're on the track
and your gut lurches as you realise the what ifs of the last pile up.
When you fall or land on that strange angle and you feel your body pushed and
wrenched into directions you know that it can't go, but somehow you skate away
unharmed.
I've seen that moment happen for others and feared for how I
would cope. How would I deal with the pain? How would my family
deal with the stress? How would my mental health cope with having the
derby crutch yanked away from it??
And last Saturday night it happened to me.
I didn't even have time to register there was a pile up in front
of me but my body plow-stopped instinctively. I don't think I will ever
forget the sound of the bone snapping, or erase the image of my leg bent at
ninety degrees where it should never bend. But I'll also never forget
Pam's face immediately in mine - eyes locking me in - strong and sure. Or Crash
and Baddy tirelessly counting with me - keeping me focused and calm as we
waited for the ambulance to arrive. Don't get me wrong - it wasn't a
picture of serenity - there was much swearing to be done and I did it with
great gusto. My teammate texted me the next day "So gutted for you,
yet exceptionally proud of your use of the f-bomb...a lot of f-bomb!
<3"
The ambulance arrived, along with pain relief, along with Mr
Buzz. Despite having three children it was my first experience of using
nox gas and I'd highly recommend it. Ketamine, not so much, apparently I
didn't blink for 4 mins.
I remember moaning a lot in the ambulance as we wobbled over
East Christchurch's broken roads. At the hospital we waited, had xrays,
and waited some more. Mr Buzz and I both noted that this was the most
quality time we’d had without kids in a long time. Official diagnosis -
Compound comminuted spiral distal left tibula and dual fibula fractures with
Grade 1 Gustilo soft tissue injury. Say that with a marshmallow or two in
your gob.
I was admitted into the trauma ward and readied for
surgery first thing on Sunday. My fracture was compound, meaning that the
bone had gone through the skin and they needed to operate quickly due to the
risk of infection. So the next day they fixed it up with an iron rod and
a few screws, turning me into a bionic cyborg woman. The
next week is a bit of a blur of painkillers, hospital food and bedpans.
But also plenty of time to think and listen and absorb life lessons from
what was going on around me. How lucky I am. How much I love my
family. How amazing and supportive my ORDL family are. How derby is
so much more than just a sport to me. How beautiful and strong people are
and how strange and random life can be.
So I sit here, finally back in my own home, a week later,
following the Twitter feed of my team-mates battling it out on the track at the
Triple Beheader in Dunedin. And my emotions are a rollercoaster. I
desperately want to be there on the track with them - playing hard and having
fun but everytime a pileup or player down is mentioned a wave of fear comes
over me and I don't know if I'm going to be strong enough to push it away.
I can see my gear bag sitting across the room. Lugging it
to training has become such a part of my life, I think it can go sit in the
garage for a few months now. I have a lot to do before I can use it
again. I have to make sure my family are doing okay under the extra
pressure this has brought them. I have to do my exercises. I have
to conquer the fear.
Derby was never easy for me. I had to work damn hard to
get to where I was. Can I do that all again?? And then some?? As I look
at the Triple Beheader bout photo just posted on Facebook and tag each of
my beautiful teammate's glowing, post-bout faces it dawns on me that I
don't have a choice. I can't give up Derby. I can't give up on my derby family.
They are both part of my Soul now.
