The Poetry and Science of Repair

I want to tell the story of my peroneal tendon. Our bodies are miracles. The surgery to repair my torn peroneal tendon was a miracle. It happened 8 months ago this week. The physical therapy in which I have been engaged is a miracle. Healing is a miracle. Healing is a revival. My injury did not result from one event — one bad fall, one bad twist, one bad jump. It happened after years of pain. It happened after not finishing races. It happened after falling out of shape. Turning all that around is a revival.

The miracle means I get outdoors more, and more, and more. The miracle means I make decisions beyond pain and fear. Over the last few years — before surgery — I had become comfortable opting out. Opting in is a miracle. Opting in smells like magnolia in spring. Opting sounds like leaves crunching underneath my feet as I make my way. Opting in feels like taking the stairs. Opting in means walking with Greg through the University of Texas campus. Opting in means registering for my next half marathon which will happen the last week of April next year. Opting in means slowly building strength, flexibility, and endurance.

The progress I have made over the last 8 months is straightforward. Healing began with the skill and expertise of my surgeon’s hands. Healing continued with 2 weeks on the top floor of our loft, not taking stairs, having my meals prepared and delivered, and writing on my computer on my lap desk from my bed. Healing continues from cast to boot, boot to brace, and brace to orthotics. Healing continues with weekly physical therapy and a training calendar that outlines what I must do to heal over time.

What if healing is both poetry and science? Our bodies are healing machines where — by design — we form scar tissue, take breaths, learn balance, build strength, create pathways, experience joy, feel pain, situate space, and change minds. We bloom and fade. We live and die. My peroneal tendon is evidence. Poetry and science. I have faith in my capacity to repair and heal. In a world where repair feels impossible, and often remains hidden beneath the weight of pain and sorrow and questions — like just how do we put things back together once they have been torn — repair is a revival.