Walk, Don’t Walk: My Being Is Sidelined

Squibs & Blurbs

by Jerry Zimmerman

TEANECK, NJ—(Weekly Hubris)—9/13/10—I couldn’t walk.

Well, I could hardly walk. Walking was very painful, so painful that I didn’t want to walk. A week and a half ago, I started to get sore hips and, when I took a step on my right leg—POW!—I felt sure that someone had suddenly stuck a knife into my hip joint.

From there on, things just got worse. My hip hurt, my leg hurt, my back hurt, and I mean hurt like crazy. What had happened? What had I done? I had taken a long walk in New York City the night before wearing flip-flops and, yes, I had tired out my legs, but could that have possibly caused all this? That walk was the only not-perfectly-ordinary event of that last day or so: what was going on?

I went to my friend, Dr. Pete, an experienced and caring chiropractor. His office is only half a block away, but I had to drive. Dr. Pete gave me a complete going over and decided it was Ilial Tibial Band Syndrome, affectionately known as ITBS, a serious strain to this giant tendon caused by wear and tear and, possibly, something else unknown. Dr. Pete began treating me immediately.

After a week and a half, I’m walking around more and starting to feel better, though it looks like it will be a couple of weeks more before I’m feeling pretty much up to par. There are many prime suspects in this crime perpetrated on my musculature and ligature, but not enough evidence to pick any one thing out of a line-up. So, rehab, rest and, the most difficult one, patience.

This event has taken me by surprise. I’m in good health and fit. I teach and train in a martial art and I do weight/strength training several times a week. I eat well. I hardly ever go to Dairy Queen! What’s going on here?

I’ve been injured or sore many times in my life, but this event has really shaken me. Not just physically, though I walked like a major car wreck victim for a couple of days, but even more so . . . psychically.

At this time in my life, I am living alone, trying to enjoy the pleasures of such a lifestyle (though it’s not my favorite, by a long shot). Suddenly, with the main, and only, guy around pretty much unworkable, everything comes to a standstill.

Do you have any idea how much we are all in constant motion while simply attending to the basics in our homes? Try to cook a simple meal with VERY limited movement. Try to put away yesterday’s laundry or store something in the attic (yikes!) or simply get up to get the mail. At the rate I was going with my new roommate, ITBS, the house would have looked like the leading edge of the New Jersey landfill in about four days.  The thought of going to the grocery store seemed akin to mounting a Clash of the Titans while completely unarmed—daunting, not to put too fine a point on it.

Now add to this the fact that I make my living by teaching Aikido, a beautiful martial art full of flowing and constant movement. And I teach almost every day. So, now what?

This has been my solution, and it’s pretty much a “guy” solution: do only what you need to do for now, ignore the yelling and screaming (is that coming from me?) as you move around, step over everything you can’t push, lift or cajole into another spot, teach your classes by gritting your teeth and walking way more slowly to students than you ever thought possible, go to the store at that one, very best moment of your day and try to be genuinely patient.

I seem to be coming out of the worst of it, and I knew I would, but something else much larger than the pain and the inconvenience has been eating at me.

I have been feeling less; less capable, less strong, less valuable, less . . . me.

I’m a very down-to-earth guy, as in, I like to have my feet planted on the ground. I love the physicality of humans, of myself. I love the power and beauty of movement, mine and that of others, in all the arts, and just in daily life.

I strive for strength; in character, in purpose, in the power of my body.

Without strength, without ease of movement, without mobility—where does that leave me?

I know that physical strength is only a part of one’s life. Many people live wonderful lives with disabilities; many people have lives involving only a minimum of physicality. And we all continue to grow older, and our bodies constantly weaken and fray.

I can walk again, somewhat. I can lift some things and I can prepare dinner with only the occasional quick yelp of discomfort. I am getting back to my normal capabilities.

Yet, something has been torn apart and has healed with a scar, the scar of a question that I must carry, the question of who I will be without my healthy body, what I will be without my easy movement, and what will be the value of my life as it surely changes.

How can I become stronger as my body grows weaker?