Peeling Back the Layers

A week ago I fell off my bike.

I was speeding down Congo Rd, heart full with the joy of morning sunshine through dappled leaves, when the tarmac road turned abruptly to gravel. As I turned onto South Head road my bike slid out, flinging me against the unsurfaced road which ripped multiple layers of delicate skin from my left butt cheek, thigh and elbow. All places where you definitely need skin.

This was my first serious fall. Maybe my first fall ever, if you don’t count the wobbly childhood times learning to let go of the stabilisers. It happened so fast. One moment I was singing to the clouds, the next I was closely intimate with concrete. How fragile we are. 

I quickly surveyed myself, no broken bones, can stand, bloody but seemingly fine. Surveyed my beloved e-bike. Fine. Sat on the grass for a couple of minutes, drank some water, then jumped back on and rode the 20 ks back to my house in Broulee. I was going to ride all the way to the studio but found the sense to ask for a lift and from that I carried on with my day. Yoga classes, mentoring, teaching. Trying to ignore the blood and puss oozing from my thigh. 

That night the sheets stuck to the wound. The pain was getting worse, but I was still convinced it wasn’t serious, it would get better with some sun and salt water, doesn’t the ocean cure everything? The next day, Tuesday, I was limping around but I felt like it was healing. The part of the wound right under my butt cheek was oozing. I was wondering how to keep my bum from overhanging my thigh, maybe I could pin it up or something and it would dry out. I practiced yoga that evening on the headland, marvelling at how little my body could do. I’ve been incredibly fortunate over the years and have only had a couple of very minor injuries that healed quickly. This was a new sensation, not being able to move one leg.

That night again, the sheets stuck to the wound, and this time the pain was way worse. When I woke up in the morning (Wednesday) my thigh was swollen, the whole thing was yellow and green and I knew my attitude of ‘everything fine’ wasn’t gonna wash anymore. I called my incredible friend Tarryn who just happens to be a nurse and owns Moruya General Practice. She came straight over, taught me all about wound care and told me how to dress it and keep it clean. 

My fear of course was that the wound would get infected, but I really thought I would be immune to this because I did so much yoga, was so healthy, ate well, took medicinal mushrooms blah blah blah. Unfortunately all the Reishi in the world wasn’t enough to save me from the inevitable nasty bugs that took hold. The area is so big, and so deep. I literally saw the infection take on a life of its own. It was like a gooey green, angry, swollen alien had latched itself onto my thigh. The raw steak turned into custard. Tarryn rushed a script of high strength antibiotics through and luckily I could start taking them that evening. I’m not exaggerating when I say she saved my life. Western medicine saved my life. Antibiotics for all their shortcomings work. I kept thinking about the pre-penicillin days when these staf infections would kill people in the most slow, painful ways. That evening as the severity of the situation sank in, I started to come to terms with what had happened.

This was a severe injury. I wasn’t going to just brush it off like I do most things and carry on. I had to take a break from all my most loved activities.  I was given 3 weeks as a guide. Rest. Stay out of the sun. Don't move. 3 weeks!!

Movement is life. Without it we stagnate. A typical day for me involves cycling 40 ks to the studio and back, multiple ocean swims, daily asana practice, teaching yoga, dancing wherever & whenever I can (usually whilst cycling, I like to multi-task), walking on the beach, more teaching, sometimes even running on the soft sand when I feel the urge. Every night I sink into bed tired yet happy, all my energy used up. This is where I get my joy, my inspiration, my energy, my courage. Without movement, what am I? How do I access this?

The first couple of days of ABBR (antibiotic bed rest) were hard. I woke up in the morning with no drive. Not tired enough to sleep, my nights were restless. When the sun starts to rise I love to jump out and watch the sun rise but this was out. So I lay in bed and cried. Mornings now revolved around tending to the alien. Taking off the dressing. Hoping for a miracle. Seeing the oozing mess and then washing it out, cringing in the shower. Cream on the wound. More tears. A fresh bandage awkwardly applied and half falling off. Way too much surgical tape, cutting off my circulation. Lying on my belly, the only comfortable position. Panadol. My fruit bowl transformed to a medical cabinet.

Suddenly everything in my house seemed too dirty. I wondered if I should be in hospital. Skin is such a magnificent thing. Without it I felt afraid for the first time in my life. Afraid of germs who are normally my friends. I pride myself on eating so much dirt when I was a kid that I’m immune to food poisoning. I would gleefully eat all the street food and fresh market veggie across India and SE Asia ignoring all well meaning advice to the horror of any Westerner I met. I never got sick. I was invincible! Now I was afraid of the germs that might be hiding on my seemingly clean floor.

I tried to be philosophical. ‘This is the universe’s way of warning me to be more careful. To maybe not ride and dance AT THE SAME TIME.’ ‘I’m being taught how to rest’. ‘It can’t be rainbows & unicorns all the time’. My own words repeated so often in class reverberated around my head. See. You get the lessons you need to learn.

I am terrible at resting. It’s pretty ironic I teach it for a living. I’m not very good at being comfortable with the discomfort. I’m not very good at self-care. I totally suck at giving myself a break. So, of course, I got what I needed. We all do, in the end. I kept telling myself, oh I’ll take a week off soon, but of course ‘soon’ didn’t come, so the choice was taken out of my hands. 

Here we are on Monday. Day 7. The wound is healing well. Incredibly well! I'm so grateful to my white blood cells for fighting so damn hard. Every day I send out the DBP (Daily Butt Pic) to Tarryn and a whole bunch of friends. These are not the naked pics I’m used to sending although I think my butt looks pretty good if you ignore the custard alien. (I was tempted to head this newsletter with the DBP but reason prevails)

I’ve got used to lying about on my floor, watching the clouds weave patterns in the big blue sky as my skin stitches itself back together. I’ve been meditating a lot, although I don’t know if you’d even call it that. I can’t sit, so I lie, eyes closed and watch the lights behind my eyelids until I feel totally absorbed in stillness. I’ve caught up with friends I haven’t spoken to in years. I speak to my parents almost every day. I notice all the times I thought I was ‘too busy’. That thought makes me sad. The sadness reminds me what's really important.

My plants are absolutely delighted with my house arrest. They smile and shake their new leaves at me, ‘look Mum, look what I’ve grown, for you.’ I shower them with love, sing songs to them and spray them with the finest tank water twice a day. Normally they’re abandoned for 16 hours a day.

I’m visited by my brilliant friends, bringing mangos and chocolate and curries, and homemade sourdough pizzas, and ice cream and wine. Best of all bringing me their company, their conversation, their love. 

I’m even finishing a few of the dozens of online courses I signed up for last year (I’m hardly scratching the surface). But honestly, most of the time I just lie here, or make endless cups of tea, coffee & cacao, or record pointless stories on instagram. And you know what. For the first time, I’m OK with it. I’m ok with not being the most inspired, productive, helpful version of myself. I’m ready to let myself heal.

Thank you to every single one of you who’s messaged, called, come by, sent prayers. I feel so loved. I hope you know how much I appreciate you, your friendship and support. Thanks for teaching me how to receive, so when I’m ready I can give even more fully.