Trifuckta

The week after we found Lola in the ditch, I stepped outside to recess wearing flat-soled sneakers on a wet day.

"Do you want to play soccer Ms. Christy?"

I did.

I played with this same group of 5th grade students three days after Lola died, and thanked them afterwards for the much needed temporary getaway.

Sports, even a twenty-minute game of pick-up soccer with ten and eleven-year-olds in the middle of my work day, always helps me transcend whatever weight I carry.

In the pursuit of a ball or a puck or a frisbee, I can't worry about Elias or Olive or all the other children I love. I can't worry about house projects or finances or phone calls. I can't worry about pandemics or politics or the myriad of potential problems we face.

I can forget for a moment that someone hit my dog and left her in a ditch to die. That she won't greet me on our driveway at the end of the day. That Lola's collar now rests on a grey stone.

I can just run, skate, kick, catch, shoot, defend, as others do the same. A tribe of bodies in motion with one pursuit: to play.

So my answer was and always will be: "Yes, I'd love to play!"

As I defended one of the boys, I slipped as I turned to contain him and felt my knee pop.

Shit!

I didn't fall over, just stood there trying to figure out if I could bear weight on my left leg. The kids kept playing, oblivious to my pain. I finally had to make a T with my hands and yell, "I'm out. Don't pass to me. I just did something to my knee."

When the bell rang, and I slowly limped towards the door, taking very precise straight steps, a girl came to me in tears about the actions of a boy and a different boy approached me angry about the antics of kids in line.

As I said, oblivious to my pain. 

Turns out that the "something to my knee" I did was a full rupture of my ACL, strained MCL, and a possible torn meniscus from the root.

I know this because I drove myself to a walk-in orthopedic clinic in Anchorage the next day and received the MRI report last Friday.

On that same Friday night, I sat in our car at the Alyeska Day Lodge parking lot, watching a Teton Gravity ski movie, a fundraiser for Challenge Alaska we purchased tickets for weeks earlier, thankful it was dark and my family couldn't see my tears.

No ski season. No pond hockey. No indoor soccer (finally happening this winter in Seward for the first time since we moved here). As the Physician's Assistant who saw me at the clinic said, even before the MRI results: "No running, biking, swimming, or anything that's fun."

No fun.

My follow up appointment, to discuss the MRI results with a doctor and determine a plan of action, was scheduled for this Wednesday. Tuesday night I felt a tickle in my throat and my head started to feel a little stuffy. I woke up in the morning feeling worse.

Shit!

Convinced it was nothing more than a head cold, I called my school nurse to see if she could test me in the parking lot, hopeful that I could still see the knee doctor if I had symptoms but a negative Covid-19 test.

As I waited for my results, alone in my car, in the dark of an Alaska morning, I watched the activity inside my school through the windows. It felt odd to be on the outside looking in and I found myself missing the hustle of the school day, despite how exhausting this year has been.

I love my school. I love my staff. I love working with all the kids from preschool to 5th grade. I feel honored to bear witness to their lives. Privileged to use puppets, art, stories and games to communicate. And though it is not always easy, with trauma and heavy responsibilities as part of the weekly stew, my job is essentially to play with children.

... my answer was and always will be: "Yes, I'd love to play!"

Twenty minutes later, the sun still not above the mountains, I received a text from our nurse: Positive (+)

Shit!

So now here I sit, alone in my bedroom, listening to the sounds of my family below. It is especially lonely to dwell in the same house but remain separated from the people you love. I can hear them, even see them from afar, but we can't touch. 

Olive, our runner, delivers meals, drinks, and ice to my door. She even offered to cook me breakfast without prompting. Despite her forced separation from school and friends-- my kid who never wants to miss a day--she remains cheerful instead of sulking and for this I am grateful.

And I will always be grateful for Nick, forced to sleep on the couch, despite a bad back, who continues to cook, clean and care for the kids, while working full-time from home. My love who, despite all the grief and stress, still gives me a tired smile from a distance. Even masked, I can see the warmth in those glacial blue eyes I fell into all those years ago and called home.

I miss Nick's hugs already. And Olive and Elias's growing awkward bodies next to mine.

The big worry now, the weight I can't outrun even with two good knees, is the fear that everyone else in my family will develop symptoms. That they too will get Covid-19.

Nick, Elias, and Olive test on Monday.

Elias started sniffling this morning. He never tells us how he feels. So if his head or throat hurts we wouldn't know. Like detectives, we just need to listen and watch. Tough to do from a distance, from a floor above, the Mom in me wants to to put my hands on his forehead, his chest.

Will his damaged lungs handle Covid-19 if this virus finds him? Will he be prioritized for care if he needs it? And what about Olive, the only unvaccinated one amongst us? Yes, she remains healthy and strong but colds and flus tend to dive down into her chest; she's needed an inhaler for coughs in the past, what could Covid do to our young athlete? And what if Nick tests positive but our children don't, how then do we handle our life?

My brain can't contain all these answerless questions. I can't stop the waves or the clouds or the wind from howling.

Its quiet downstairs now, all of us on separate devices, NPR plays on the radio but I can't understand the host's words, another grey day emerges. 

I look out my windows and wait...

...but I will say to the universe, you've sent us one hell of a trifuckta already, so I'd like to be through now.

Nothing but sunshine and roses over the weeks ahead, please.

Thank you.

Comments

[Sarah Spanos]

Christy, if you and Nick need anything, let me know. I can grocery shop, buy wine or sit with the kids if Nick is quarantined upstairs.
Your words end each time much too soon. I look forward to the day of buying your book with every blog entry, waiting to be read as if it were the first time reading them.
Hugs Sis’ta!!!

[Cindy Ecklund]

Oh Christy Dear, I pray your wish for sunshine for you in any form; true sun, moonshine through your window and negative tests for your family!

[Candice]

“Trifuckta” is a perfect word for all of that. I am so, so sorry. ❤️❤️❤️

[Elaine]

I’m so sorry about this string of terrible luck, especially because you enjoy being so active. Maybe this is a time fit you to “run” with your writing and tackle sine big project instead?

[Tracy]

I am sorry that you got the virus but hope your family will be virus-free. I worry every time Rob is sick, but each time the test comes back negative and there is another diagnosis.

I am so sad for you to have had to say goodbye to your precious dog this way.

And an injury is definitely a terrible thing for you. Once you get thru Covid, I hope your care will be able to start you on the fast track to recovery.

[Karen]

Dear Christy, I have been reading your blog for years from where I live in Australia. What a tough situation for you and your family. As always your writing conveys the fears and worries of so many. Take care Karen

[Angie]

Geez…Louise! Sending lots of healing wishes and love your way. Angie

[Christy]

It is always so nice to read all your comments. They really booster my spirit, thank you!

Here's to sun and moonshine, health and healing, negative tests, and a community of kind souls!

[Kate]

Whoa that is A Lot going on at the same time. So sorry for these updates. Thinking of you and your family and hope you are soon on the other side of all of this and especially that no one else gets sick. Holding you in my thoughts.