Every morning is yoga at sunrise for me; just a short practice, but there every day giving me balance, flexibility and strength. Sunday 22 March 2009 began just that way, then off cycling along the beach front road from Burleigh to the Gold Coast Spit. Outside the Mermaid Beach Surf Life Saving Club I came to an abrupt stop when a car turned in front of me. I don’t remember what happened after I swerved and squeezed the brakes. I woke up gazing into the wheel arch of the car. It felt bad.
The lifesavers picked me up off the road and flat-packed me into the First Aid Room. The paramedics came and did their thing with calm efficiency. In the hospital Emergency Ward time passed in a haze of x-rays, observation and ice. Sometime in the evening the orthopaedic surgeon came with the news: displaced fracture of the right clavicle and shattered acetabular (pelvis). What did this mean? I’d need a lift to work in the morning. Oh how optimistic I was: traction for six weeks, then “We’re not sure, but you’ll be in hospital for at least three months.”
Going from 25km hour to zero, broken, with bruises that I never got to see and being inside my head with my fears and phobias was terrifying. This wasn’t my life. This wasn’t in the plan. The next 10 days or so were a blur of doctors, nurses, surgery, metal pins and traction weights, as I realised horizontal immobile life. Even in this time somewhere in my head Yoga Nidra (Yogic Sleep) kicked in. Relax, centre, concentrate, and meditate. The night times and weekends were the hardest because they lacked activity and routine that I could mark. I started metering blocks of time in week days then weekends; sizable chunks that my brain could cope with ... not six weeks, 42 days, and the scariness of what might or might not happen then. Retreat to Yoga Nidra, again and again: safe, constant, achievable.
I remembered reading the autobiography of Dr. Tenzin Choedrak, personal physician to the Dalai Lama, and the accounts of other people who found themselves in confined spaces. They still managed their yoga practice in stillness. They mentally pictured their bodies doing the asanas, breathing and taking their minds through the sequence of postures they were unable to do. I had time and I needed focus. Every morning I pictured myself on my yoga mat at home, fluid and graceful, physically whole and living my yoga practice.
In the early hours of the morning, a patient two beds along from me was crying and waiting for her next pain medication. I’d never seen her, me being flat and literally screwed to the bed. I was also so concentrated on healing myself, visualisation, repelling any infections and sending positive energy to my injury sites, I’d never engaged with the other patients. Deep full yoga breathing was working for me and I knew the Prana energy would help her too.
“Juleen? Are you okay?”
Crying, “No. It hurts.”
“Let’s breathe together. Can you put one hand on your tummy near your belly button and the other on the top of your chest near your collar bone?”
Crying.
“Let’s slow down our breathing and count the breath in and out to a count of eight or six maybe. Start by inhaling, filling the lower abdomen and feel the lower hand rise up, then fill the lower ribs and upper ribs. See the top hand rise. Hold the breathe in at the top for one or two counts, then exhale from the top to the lower abdomen, feeling the hands fall and lastly sinking the belly button to the spine. Again to a count of eight, inhale ..., hold ..., exhale... In your own time, inhale and exhale.”
Gradually her crying subsided and I heard her sleep breathing in the dark of the night. Some 45 minutes later, she roused much calmer.
“Juleen, how are you doing?”
Sniffling, “Okay.”
“You’ve been asleep.”
“Really?” Sniff, “Thanks.”
Remote yoga and the power of the mind! I still smile to myself and get goose-bumps recalling this story.
The weeks passed and I felt stronger. My body was healing. I could feel it inside. Follow up x-rays heralded my release from traction and removal of the pin above my knee, saw me standing with the aid of two physiotherapists. They caught me when I fell due to my blood pressure plummeting with my change in altitude. Walking meant hopping on my other leg and pushing a shoulder height wheelie walking frame from the bed to the bathroom. The round trip of about 20 metres took half an hour, and I was exhausted. How did I ever train for hours each day? It seemed insurmountable. With dogged determination I pushed myself around the ward, then ventured out around the nurse’s station. I was barely recognisable. One because they’d never seen me vertical and two because I looked like Vampira: long hair, pale, with dark circles under my eyes, skinny and wasted, wearing hospital issue boy’s pyjamas.
Determined to go home, I mastered three stairs, up and down, on crutches, so that my rehabilitation could truly begin. First morning home, yoga mat in its usual place on the floor, I crumpled to the floor and laid in Savasana (Lifeless Body or Corpse posture) ... and that was it. Tears ... I could stretch my left arm up over my head, and breathe. After feeling sorry for myself and then feeling ridiculous, the biggest challenge of the day was getting back up off the floor. I’m not that resilient, and I didn’t try again for a little while. I didn’t have any movement in my right knee. After having been pinned and immobilised for six weeks, my quad muscles had solidified and my knee was locked like a rusty hinge on a gate. The doctor’s orders: no weight bearing on my right leg for six more weeks. Well, that just wouldn’t do. Between physiotherapy and osteopathy, and sheer determination to get off the couch, my goal was to be able to again sit in Virasana (Hero pose) with my buttocks on my heels. We measured my progress firstly by how many degrees my knee would bend, then by how much I was closing the gap to my heels.
The physical practice of yoga came back into my life. Achieving previously expected postures now represented my benchmarks and goals. I spent two more months at home with time and more time. I surpassed all expectations of how mobile I would get and I do not have residual pain. I truly believe all this is because of my dedication to my yoga practice and its reward. It is amazing how the body heals itself and tells you what it needs, if you just listen, but it is exhausting. Things I had never consciously considered: steps, doors, cars, crossings, escalators, carrying a cup of tea to the couch. I still get excited when I can walk to the letterbox.
Yoga and the ability to be inside myself in stillness, mindfulness and meditation, drew me forward and healed me physically and mentally. I discovered empathy within myself. I now understand that sometimes, “I can’t” means just that, but it doesn’t mean you don’t try again tomorrow. ... and sometimes things sneak up on you. I can do Padmasana (Lotus position) again, well almost, and my favourite Gomukhasana (Cow Face posture) is looking symmetrical and poised. As I plan to escape to Bali for a yoga retreat this year I am just so thankful that way back in Redcliffe in the 1980s I went to my first class at the Community Centre and began my lifelong journey with yoga. The teacher was a beautiful, wiry and wizened lady, Joy. I embraced yoga fully with Sinnamon at Labrador in the 1990s, and Jessie from Radiance Retreats in the 2000s. Thank you to each of these special women. Namaste.
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