At Least My Left Arm Still Works

Recently, I have been on a mission to find a new cane. Well, I am happy to report that the search is over. I no longer need a new cane....what I need now is a new wrist. Yes, today I took my gimpiness to new and unparalleled heights by fracturing/spraining my wrist. The same wrist I use to hold my cane. The same cane that prevents me from walking like the Phantom of the Opera. Translation: in the past 24 hours, my gimpiness has increased by roughly 200%. You know, because I really needed some special sauce on my disability sandwich.

The end result is that instead of being a six-foot-two chick walking in a slightly gimpy manner with a broken cane, I am now a six-foot-two chick walking in a highly gimpy, zombie-heroin-addict manner, minus the cane, with a broke-down wrist covered in a huge splint. (Unexpected bonus: because of typing difficulties, I might finally learn the noble art of concision). Someone really needs to give me my own category in the Darwin Awards...or at least a show on TLC. ("The Girl Whose Body Fell Off.")

And how did this happen? You can blame wheelchair basketball. Actually, you can blame me for returning to wheelchair basketball even though I was the proud owner of both a damaged hip made of ceramic and a partially detached ass muscle. You can further blame me for making a decision as I was being launched a few feet up in the air and was hurtling towards the ground to save the hip by sacrificing the wrist. I mean, I have been around the wheelchair-basketball block. I know that the first rule of falling is not to put your wrist out. I should also have realized that my hip is basically being replaced this summer and is therefore the prosthetic equivalent of a rental car. That shit is getting returned to the dealership around June. My wrist, however, is something I'm kind of stuck with. Bad read.

I have therefore abandoned my search for the perfect cane in search for the perfect way to not walk like you're about to eat someone's brainz. My immediate thought (because "House" is like crack to me) is that I could switch my cane to the opposite hand and walk like Dr. House. (House walks with his cane beside his injured leg, which is the opposite of what they teach you in cane-walking school). After some experimentation, however, it became clear that you must need to be a complex, twisted medical genius to rock that look. I don't have the coordination and wound up looking like someone's grandma who won't use a proper medical device because those are for "old people" and so drags herself around her apartment by using a broom handle as a "hiking stick."

The only solution is for me to go au naturale in the cane department. True, this will probably result in me frightening small children, but I've got places to go and things to do. Like hen-peck typing with my one good hand. Or explaining to the nice police officer that I'm not drunk, it's just that I had a hip replacement and my ass fell off and...

Hey, did I just get through an entire post without quoting Dan Bejar?

Self Portrait with Waist-Trimming Belt

History has shown that I am not exactly a genius in the "making smart health decisions" department. I have a tendency to run my body into the ground harder than those WWF wrestlers who spend their lives being hit over the head with chairs and walk like old men by the time they're 40....except I'm 27 and I walk like an old man....on heroin. I must have the world's most boring masochistic streak: no whips, no leather, no safety word, just wheelchair basketball.

That's right. Not only am I back playing wheelchair basketball, but I'm back practicing with the U of I varsity team. Translation: this morning, I woke up at 5:45 a.m. already wearing my workout clothes, froze my ass off in my 58-degree apartment while I struggled to make toast without waking up everyone in my household, bundled up in 8 million layers, nearly wiped out on the ice three times walking to my car, then drove to practice in the dark singing Destroyer's "Self Portrait (With Thing)" at the top of my lungs to wake myself up ("tonight is not your night....no it's not your night...oooooh....yeah").

As I was engaging in a little Dan Bejar early-morning karaoke, I thought to myself: Arley, you cannot even complain about this shit because you are doing this voluntarily. You are choosing to be here. Right now, you could be in bed with your cat drinking coffee and reading "The Savage Detectives," (which is awesome, by the way, even though Bolano does tons of shit that I usually hate in fiction). The only thing worse than getting up at 5:45 a.m. in winter is having no ability to complain about it.

I must admit, however, that it's good to be back, even though the only way I can play is to use a "waist-trimming" neoprene strap that is designed to "sweat inches off your waistline" (I can corroborate the "sweating" part...not so much the "inches" part) as a strap, which means that I'm the only class 4.0 (read: nearly able-bodied) player strapping like a class 1.0 (read: high paraplegic). It's not the most dignified way to play basketball, but at least I'm sweating my way to a svelter me.

It's strange being back as a guest instead of a player, but there's something wonderful about getting through a whole practice without half of my skeleton falling off. Even though my hip shifts around a lot and makes a clunking sensation that makes me a little queasy, at least those sensations are just annoying. As my teammate Shawna said, "It's so nice not to have to tug on your leg all the time!" Truer words were never spoken, though I guess I'll have to find a new pick-up line. (Because "hey, baby, can you tug on my leg to put my hip back in its socket?" was really getting me places).

In my defense, I've actually tried to be smart (smarter?...smartish?...) about the whole thing. After two days of practice, my back was acting up and I kept getting pins and needles in my right foot. Did I say, "Fuck you, body. I don't need sensation in that body part anyhow. Now let's go lift some heavy things!" No! Instead, I took a day off, slapped on a heat pack or two, and chilled the fuck out. In response, my back stopped being a diva and I was able to practice the next day. Baby steps, people. Baby steps. After all, I can't afford to be gimpier.

A Matter of Symmetry and Chafing

Anyone who's read this blog for more than a few minutes is probably familiar with the state of my anti-ass. (Reason #154 why I'm single, but who's counting?) For those of you who've had intensive psychotherapy to block out the mental image, let me jog your memory. The loss of my gluteus medius has cost me my ass, which has become an anti-ass which, whenever I sit on a hard surface, becomes a bruised anti-ass, which is red hot sexy and probably Reason #155 why I'm single. (And, yes, I have written more about my anti-ass than I have about the hip-replacement surgery itself. Priorities! The public needs to know!).

Well, feel sorry for my anti-ass no longer. Even though I still may be walking like the monsters in the Monster Mash music video (thanks, Cheryl), I have found a way to balance myself out. Actually, wheelchair basketball has found a way to balance me out. (See, wheelchair basketball. How could I ever break up with you?)

Today, I tried out a new strapping system. I upgraded from the "stretchy luggage strap" to the "weight-lifting belt around my midsection." Pro: I don't stand up every 3.5 seconds and am more stable. Con: my two hip bones have become massively bruised. These bruises, however, give me symmetry since they line up with the bruises on the back. It's like yin and yang. This is good news because my anti-ass now has an office mate in the Department of Complaints, Minor Inconveniences and Old-Lady-ry: the anti-hip. (I'm not sure if the muscles around my hip have actually worn away or if weight-lifting belt + midsection is just a natural recipe for some chafing).

Ok. Yes. I have actually just written a blog post about hip chafing, (which is still not as bad as my post about my monkey slippers). This, however, is serious business. I mean, what am I going to say to the old ladies at deep-water aerobics tomorrow? You just know that the minute I step out in my sexy one-piece bathing suit that's literally disintegrating from the chlorine rocking two huge bruises on my hips, Myrtle is going to be looking at Gladys and being like, "Check out that tall gimpy one. Homegirl obviously had a good night." And Gladys will be like, "Oh. Yeah." And Myrtle will be like, "Lord, I've been there. When I used to give it up against that bathroom stall back when in the '60s when I was strapped for cash, my hips were raw for weeks" and Gladys will be like...ok, too far? Too far.

Anyhow, the point is that deep water aerobics is bad enough without having old ladies speculating about how you wound up with bruises and chafing on your hips. Why do I get the sense that I'm the only one who ever has these problems?

You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling

You ever break up with someone and then, after a few months of their absence, begin to wax poetic about all the warm, fuzzy things that person used to do until it becomes clear that you threw away the best relationship in the history of the world that no other relationship could ever top with the person of your dreams and that no one will ever love you again? And then you're ridiculously happy the next time you run into (read: stalk) that person, until after 10 minutes of conversing with them they say or do something that reminds you all over again why you're glad to be single and that your nostalgia was a mere product of your own loneliness, boredom and fear of spinsterhood? (No? Just me?) Anyways, that's the relationship I think I have with wheelchair basketball.

Last March, I broke up with wheelchair basketball because it was causing me nothing but hip-ache and pain. I was so burnt out that I literally felt a bit nauseous when I passed the bus we used to travel on. After watching a tournament a few weeks ago, however, I began to get that lovin' feeling. I missed playing a sport (rather than just exercising). I missed blocking shots and laying the smack down. So even though my hip was not exactly ready for action, I decided to suit up.

I found a wide chair and developed a strapping system that wouldn't hurt the place where my gluteus medius detached. The fact that this so-called "strapping system" was nothing more than a stretchy luggage strap that perpetually came undone and caused me to basically stand up every time I turned a corner did not particularly phase me. For a few weeks, I was joyous. I was playing the sport I loved! I was having fun! I was getting back to normal! The things that usually annoyed me about the sport (people bitching at one another, the fact that sport is a socially acceptable way to unload your rage on someone) seemed to be merely amusing quirks! Everything was hugs, kisses and cuddly puppies!

This past week, however, I've remembered why I broke up with wheelchair basketball and I've begun to suspect that my relationship with the sport might be better left to the occasional booty call. The problem is that the Type A personality in me wants to do things well. If I can't do something well, I at least want to do it to the best of my ability. I've therefore become frustrated with the fact that I'm using a chair set-up that would have been considered archaic and clumsy 15 years ago. (When your chair set up went out of style along with blue eyeliner, you might just have a problem). Because of my ongoing hip problems, I can't strap my knees down (because, when I do, sometimes my body zigs and my hip zags and I get flashbacks of last season). I can't use snowboard bindings (which will rub against the side of my hip). I'm beginning to get the off-and-on numbness and shooting pain down my leg that signals that my lower back is quitting me. My hip is perpetually sore.

Bottom line: my balance is bad, my speed is bad and my turning radius is bad, and it's hard to focus on the finer points of the sport when you're still stuck on the finer points of how to not suck at everything. Right now, the gap between the knowledge I have in my head and my ability to execute that knowledge is worse than it was before the hip replacement. Besides, now that I'm working, I have an outlet for the massive amount of energy I seem to possess, which means that wheelchair basketball is beginning to fail the "Is this worth missing "House" for?" test.

For this reason, I'm considering shuffling off back to retirement. My plan, however, is to wait until I get back to Champaign and am reunited with my own chair. Perhaps there's a way to change my strapping system for my chair so that I can keep up. If not, however, I think I might have to concede that while I love wheelchair basketball, we're just not meant to be. Wait...What's this? Have I also dropped out of the Screw-You-Body-You'll-Do-What-I-Tell-You-To-Do School of Decision Making and Pain Management? Have I turned in my membership to the Cartesian Dualism Society of Body Awareness? Am I actually being mature for once?

I'm on a Roll/ I'm on a Roll...This Time. I Feel My Luck Could Change

One thing I've recently discovered: wheelchair basketball is a lot easier when your hip stays in the socket. It's actually, like, fun and shit. (I know. Imagine that). Even though I'm slower than a novel by Marilynne Robinson (and, truthfully, a lot less beautifully rendered), and even though I had the experience of "I'm executing this skill....five seconds too late for it to be of any use" on a regular basis, I had a great time at practice this evening. It helped that I was shooting pretty well--I even made a three-pointer on a hail mary jack-up at a buzzer--and also that it's hard not to laugh when you're strapped in so loosely that you're basically standing up every time you do anything.

I must say, however, that being back at practice in New West brings a soul-crushing feeling of deja vu. The last time I practiced at Douglas College on a regular basis was from 2005 to the summer of 2006, right before I moved to Illinois. It was a terrible year, worse than this past year actually. This year has been dramatic (surgery! Detached tendons! Loose sockets! Anti-asses! Graduation! Loss of pretty much everything I hold dear, except my family and a few of my friends!), but 2005-2006 was like Chinese water torture: just unceasing little drips of loneliness and boredom and rainy Vancouver winters. Now, granted I at least knew in 2006 that I was moving to Illinois and that I was about to make a positive life change, whereas now I have no ready escape routes, but still. I will take dramatic over unceasing ennui any day.

So, yes, wheelchair basketball is going well, except for the fact that I've lost most of the feeling in my right foot. (Usually, I can't feel my right big toe, but now it's sort of spread to the whole foot). I don't really care about this. As long as the hip stays in the socket, I'm a happy camper. I can't help but wonder, however, whether this is really a good idea. Am I just regressing? Am I just retreating back to the life that made me so unhappy in 2005-2006 simply because I have no other options? Am I trading in my long-term health for a few moments of stress relief? Are wheelchair basketball and I about to go into one of those on-again/off-again/on-and-off-at-the-same-time-again relationships? In other words: am I booty calling wheelchair basketball because I haven't had a date in awhile or am I forming a positive relationship?

Can I Put Boggle-Master on my CV?

So, 2010 is only a few days old and already it's off to a rip-roaring start. There is a dead rodent in the walls of my house and my mom has busted out a half-dozen air fresheners, which has given the house the odd smell of dead rat flesh and lollipops. The exterminator who came out said that barring ripping up our walls, there's nothing to do but sit back, relax, light some incense and wait for putrification to work its magic. We're really getting the decade off right around here. (On the plus side, isn't burning sage supposed to ward off bad spirits? Can you buy it in bulk?)

It's therefore no surprise that I was looking for any excuse to leave my house, which is one reason why I showed up at a wheelchair-basketball game for the first time since the hip replacement. I think I've mentioned before about how, after a season of being hung from doorframes after every game while people tugged at my spasming leg to put it back in the socket, I was burnt out beyond belief, disappointed in myself for not being able to play through the pain (what? You mean that sometimes life doesn't go according to the script of Nike commercials?) and basically of the opinion that I would rather stab myself in the eye with one of those electrified neurologist needles than do another triple-switch within the tea-cup defense. You would therefore expect that I would be able to watch a game and think only, "Yeah, that shit used to be fun....until it made me want to rip my stupid hip off and beat myself senseless with it...and then it was not."

You would, however, be wrong. Apparently, when I said "I never want to play basketball again" I meant "I never want to play basketball again until 6 months of wearing an ass groove in my bed makes me long for the feeling of hitting a sweet-ass jumper with only a few seconds on the clock." (Shut up. I have probably hit at least one sweet-ass jumper in my career). The game was surprisingly hard to watch (and not just because of the ass-bruising involved in sitting on bleachers). I was practically humming with nervous energy, in full-blown basketball mode thinking, so-and-so should have switched earlier on D because he was in help position and so-and-so would be more successful playing up on the press if she'd sag to the level of the ball and that was a nice pick-and-roll because the off-side created good spacing....and....and.... I can't help it. When someone coined the phrase "Type A personality," the A stood for Arley.

The last time I tried wheelchair basketball, I ended up sore and disappointed. This hasn't, however, stopped me from getting coach Cheryl to bring me a wheelchair to Wednesday's practice so I can suit up for round 2. I have already started planning elaborate schemes involving neoprene straps, the removal of side guards, and the re-arranging of other straps to make my hip more comfortable. Now, some of you are probably thinking, "Uh, Arley. Could the fact that you need a ton of modification to even SIT in the wheelchair, let alone PLAY in the wheelchair be a sign that maybe you should take up needlepoint and leave wheelchair basketball to those of us who do not have semi-broken hips made out of ceramic?" To you, I respond, "My doctor said I can't do any more damage and that I could do whatever I wanted." And to those of you who say, "Could it possibly be that your doctor's definition of 'doing whatever you want' and your definition of 'doing whatever you want' are slightly different because he is banking on the fact that you are not insane?" I say, "Hey, the stupid thing is already broken and I'm going to have surgery anyhow. How much more damage can I do?" And to those of you who say, "Isn't that the same logic that got you into this mess in the first place?" I say, "Good point, but I'm doing it anyways."

After all, if my new hip is going to act like my old hip, then I'll treat it like my old hip, and let's just say that I treated my old hip rather poorly. Actually, today has really been a day of deja vu. This morning, I woke up with a sharp pain in my hip and when I forced myself into a sitting position, I heard a loud clunk as the hip went back into place. It's been a little off kilter the whole day and tonight, as I was leaving dinner with some of my basketball friends, the stupid thing locked up and my ankle got twisted around, forcing me to pull myself up using the table and stand there with my leg at some grotesque angle while everyone (except my friends, who had already left the restaurant) stared at me. Just like old times! Nothing to see here, attractive gentlemen of Granville Island! I'm just going to give my hip a sharp twist and send that bad boy back home! Seriously, if someone told me that my old hip had miraculously grown back, I would believe them.

Oh well. Besides feeling like a total tool for having to gimp out of the restaurant like someone's stroke-addled grandmother, the night actually turned out very well, mostly because it involved Jameson and a rousing game of Boggle with Shira, Elisha and Cheryl where I conducted a master's seminar on the art of Boggle-ry. Seriously, I brought the Boggle Thunder. I was throwing down eight-letter words like they were Thor's mighty hammers. I may not have a job...or a love life....or a social life....or the ability to get through a dinner without having to wretch my hip back into its socket...but sweet Mary mother of Jesus can I play Boggle. Hey, I will take an ego boost wherever I can find it.