Falls So Hard

I fall down. It is a fact of my life. I have spastic diplegia, the most common form of cerebral palsy, and because of that I walk pigeon toed. My two proverbial left feet are always on a crash course with each other.

Falling is emotional for me. On the one hand it’s a physical reminder of a disability that I can sometimes almost forget I have. On the other hand it is a trigger because my earliest memories are around falling as a small child and being told things like “Don’t run on the sidewalk,” (because obviously grass would provide a softer landing). I am more prone to falling and being on Remote Year has been a constant reminder of that.

I have fallen down in every city on our itinerary. So when I came to Lisbon, I knew it was only a matter of time before my number came up. Lisbon was a recipe for certain disaster: different degrees of incline and decline coupled with slick uneven cobblestones. So imagine my surprise when my fall happened...in the shower.

On an unsuspecting Tuesday morning, I fell getting into the shower. I went down hard. And it was my ribcage that caught my fall on the lip of the bathtub. It sounds as awful as it felt. It was only the second fall to ever knock the wind out of me. I couldn’t breathe. Those five seconds felt like forever. Once I caught my breath, my practicality kicked in, and my next thought was, I must stop the water! I had taken the shower curtain down with me and water was getting all over the bathroom floor. So in a Herculean effort, I slowly lifted my right leg to shut the faucet off with my foot.

I laid in the bathtub for several minutes. Once the initial shock and humiliation that can only come from the vulnerability of falling naked wore off, I kicked into survival mode. As I lay there, I told myself repeatedly, out loud “You’re fine. You’re OK.”

I eventually got myself up, finished my shower, and went about my day, hell went about my week. This wasn’t the first time I had fallen and cracked a rib. I knew from my last rib injury, two years ago, that there is nothing that can be done. It’s like breaking a toe in that the bone resets on its own. I confirmed this level of inaction with my Dad, who’s a retired physician, and carried on with daily life.

Yet by Friday, something felt off. The pain was increasing as was the frequency. The right side of my rib cage would spasm so hard that the pain would stop me in my tracks and double me over. Knowing that I was flying the next day to Berlin, my mind started to go into overdrive thinking about which of my many internal organs my rib was now potentially puncturing. I called my sister Diana to confirm my suspicion that I should go to the hospital despite my dad’s reassurance that I was fine. Di boiled the situation down to the simple facts: “It’s your body and your money.”

Between this simple logic and the urging of my Ohana Kat, I knew it was time to consider the hospital. I used International SOS to find one in Berlin for the next day. Dr. Fischer was patient and kind. When he asked if I had any other questions I finally got real and asked “Should I be going to the hospital tonight?” He responded with “I think it would be best for two reasons: to rule out the remote possibility of air around your lung from a fracture and secondly to get stronger medication to make the flight more enjoyable.”

And with that, on my last night in Lisbon, I made my way to the ER at 11 p.m. with my friend Stu in tow. I was seen immediately and did not have to wait long for my x-ray results. The doctor informed me, in his queen’s English (bonus!), that I did not have any fractured ribs. I left the ER with peace of mind and in search of a 24 hour pharmacy to fill my prescription for what were essentially medicated icy/hot patches.

Stu proceeded to make the transaction for said patches through a mouth grate and mail slot in the front door of the pharmacy. For this and many other reasons (like finding the entrance to the seemingly closed looking ER) it was such a comfort to have someone with me. I am forever grateful to Stu for being there.

I arrived in Berlin the next day, sleep deprived but optimistic, that things were heading in the direction of recovery. My goal was to take it easy so that I would be well enough to attend the U2 concert at the end of the week. I have always wanted to see my favorite band in another country. When I saw that U2 were opening the European leg of their latest tour in Berlin, close to our departure date from Lisbon, I decided to make it a side trip.

It wasn’t until I went to bed that night that things went south and quickly. My airbnb studio had an unconventional bed setup. The bed was lofted from the living area, yet the bed was level with the lofted space, making getting into the bed an obstacle given my current condition. The first time I lowered my body to the floor to get into bed, I experienced an intense, ceaseless spasm. My body was not having it. I tried laying on the couch, on the floor, but my body could not get comfortable. I finally gave up. Sleep was not coming my way. Not being able to sleep set off the first of many alarm bells for me that night, “Like Houston, we have a serious problem” for if you’ve read previous posts you know I’m a champion sleeper.

This was a night of my own living hell. I cried from pain more times than I can remember. It took every ounce of strength to push my body back into an upright position after repeatedly trying to find sleep on the bed, the couch, and the floor. I was exhausted and the lack of sleep was not helping my case of hysteria. If you’ve ever had a night where you talk to God out loud, asking a litany of rhetorical questions like “What do you want from me?” to “Are you testing me?” to declaring “I can’t take any more” this was one of those nights. I knew shit was elevating when I started talking out loud to simply hear the sound of my own voice and not feel so alone.

When the sun finally came up I was ready to put the night behind me and take action. My first step was to run my gameplan by someone I trust since my own judgement was questionable after a sleepless, pain filled night. I called my sister Elena. Once I got the cry out, I ran her through my plan and she gave me the green light I needed.

She also kept a secret like only a sister can: she agreed to not tell my parents that I was alone in Berlin. My parents thought I was with my Ohana and I didn’t correct them. This lie of omission was out of protection. I knew the truth would only make my parents worry more - telling them would not help the situation.

So with my gameplan set, my first order of business was finding new accommodations. No point staying here if I can’t sleep here. I worked with an angel from Airbnb named Liwan. In explaining my situation over the phone, the tears came back. In return, Liwan gave me something you never get from a tele-operator, empathy. Liwan expressed genuine concern for my situation and worked with me to get the remainder of my stay refunded.

Liwan also presented me with a couple other Airbnb options, but at this point I was ready to give the middle finger to worrying about running out of toilet paper and all the other hassles that come with self service stays. Six months of living in apartments on the road was catching up with me and I was ready for the creature comforts and amenities that only a hotel can provide. I wanted a regular bed, a bathtub, and room service. But what I needed most was other people around me. There I was: alone, in a foreign city, in questionable health. I needed the security of knowing if things got worse, I could call the front desk. So for once in my life, I threw my budget out the window and went five star. My comfort and safety was my top priority.

With a new bed to call my own, my next call was to International SOS. Here I encountered another angel, a nurse named Lori, who found me a local hospital and told me before I hung up, “I’m here for the next 11 hours, if you need anything, call me directly.” I hailed a cab and when I got in and simply said “Emergency room,” that’s when the situation hit me hardest. Those two words felt heavy coming out of my mouth, sitting alone and scared in the backseat of a cab. Those two words made me realize this is an emergency and I’m not in Kansas anymore.

Upon admittance to Charite hospital I learned just how much that name rings true. Looking to find humanity in the sterile hospital environment, I asked the man in admissions his name. “Alex” he said, to which I responded, “That’s my brother’s name” with a tear creeping into my eye as I thought of my brother and my family. Alex could see the fear all over my face. He then told me how he usually has to collect 300 Euro from anyone upon admittance but he wasn’t going to ask it of me.

I get to see a doctor after over an hour of waiting. I tell him the situation and do my best to convey the invisible beast that is pain. He offers me two painkillers and says “you need these.” Another act of sweet, sweet, charity. I then take a series of x-rays and find myself back in the waiting room. Hours go by as I vacillate between thoughts of what’s worse: the level of pain or my level of hunger, which eventually gets curbed by the ever present hospital vending machine.

After hours of impatiently waiting, I am called back to review my results. Silvan tells me I have two fractured ribs: nine and ten on the right side. Once again tears creep up on me, but this time it’s from relief. The pain is unbearable. I knew something was really wrong. It made me feel oddly vindicated as I was starting to feel crazy. (insert xray)

I look closer at the report and see it’s written in German. So I have Silvan walk me through it as I ask a series of questions. I hijack his pen so I can take notes. Yes, notes. I want to be prepared for the series of questions I know my dad is going to have - most important of which is that the blood test confirmed I do not have any internal bleeding.

I head back to the hotel with my new diagnosis and a prescription for painkillers. My first call is to room service for a long overdue dinner and my second call is to my mom and dad. Both calls confirmed that at each step today I made the right decision. As I went into a drug induced slumber that night I reflected on the decision I was most proud of - which was the one to stay in Berlin and figure it out.

There was a hot minute after my night of hysteria that I thought about catching a flight home to Chicago. Yet before I could fully entertain the thought, my Psarras practicality kicked in and I realized that would solve nothing. I would be in pain in wherever I am. If anything the flight could make things worse. Bottom line: going home wouldn’t ease my pain but simply palliate my need for comfort.

I spent the next four days on legit bedrest. In an unprecedented event, I took multiple sick days from work since the painkillers knocked me out cold. I would set my alarm for the tail end of the breakfast buffet, eat, and then go back to bed for hours. My days were a sequence of sleep, eat, nap, netflix, repeat.

Bedrest gets boring real quick. It takes patience to heal and discipline to not push yourself. Sometimes the restlessness and loneliness were harder to deal with than the pain. My daily phone calls to my mom and my sister Elena were my lifeline to the outside world. I thank them both for being there and listening to the tedium that were my days in Berlin. I also have to thank my Ohana Mary for the daily voice notes. She has the incredible ability to make you feel her presence and warmth even when she’s not in the room. I looked forward to them the way you would eagerly await a passed note in junior high.

I was counting down the days to U2 like a kid counting down to Christmas on their paperchain. The desire to get better kept me going through bedrest. If I felt well enough on Friday, I was going. The concert was a much needed motivator that gave me something to focus on outside of my recovery.

Finally, Friday came! My day of reckoning. I was feeling good and ready to rock. Walking into the arena, it never felt better to be among other people. I walked around with a smile on my face knowing I was doing it: fulfilling a dream I’ve held for such a long time.

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen them before, I still get excited every time they make their way to the stage. It’s a mixture of disbelief and excitement that I’m seeing these people live, whose music I have spent so much time with between my ears. That moment they step out of your mind and before your eyes never gets old.

The goal really was elevation: as it gave my spirit the lift it needed. This concert, like any good one does, reminded me why I love this band, and just how much I get from their music. For me, music is the great connector. I connect with music on such a visceral level that it is the reason I rarely feel alone or homesick on the road - music is my companion. The songs I love keep me company and by selecting the right one, or the right artist, I can feel closer to my loved ones. For example, if I’m missing my sisters, a little Tom Petty will always do the trick.

And in the case of this U2 concert, the connection it gave me was to myself. My love for U2 is not nostalgic. It’s a feeling. It connects me to that child like quality of loving something with no care about how others perceive you or it. Connecting with their music connects me to my younger spirit. The Themi that fell in love with U2 at 12 was a badass (see Silver and Gold). She was passionate, fearless, and followed her heart in a way that only the inexperienced can. I find that the older I get, the more I make choices that connect me to her. The road to this concert experience was filled with holes, but it’s a journey I won’t forget with an ending that was meant to be.

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