Saturday, November 29, 2014

Never Step to God

I am a good girl and you never hear me say things like, "Oh, that's it! What more can God to do me?" Or, "God just doesn't love me!" Or, "Why does God hate me so much?"

I never step to God.

Truth be told, I live an incredibly blessed life of love and freedom and hard work and good fun and loads of friends. More importantly, I do not believe in a vengeful God. I believe in a loving and gracious and benevolent God. I do not even like writing those letters next to one another to form those words to make that sentence. But lemmetellyou, it has been one hell of a couple of years, and just when I think I have rounded the month and kinda sorta started to get ahead of the curve something else has happened, either by my own hand or by fate's, and then WHAM!

Hopefully, the last straw came with my mid-October four-day hospital stay brought about by my little surfing accident, which left me with two fractured ribs that punctured my left lung and slowly deflated it until I had no lung with which to breathe--better known as an acute pneumothorax from trauma. I am not even going to go into what it did to my 25-year-old Dow Corning silicone breast implant. Anyhoo...

I have posted a few pics and made a couple oblique mentions on my Instagram and FB Fan Page but I really have not been burning up my feeds like you would expect me to do if some kook had come from the outside and ran my kookie ass over and kept surfing right on by. That is because it was an accident of the greatest proportion--an accident distilled from the purest most authentic and unadulterated force majeure--it was an accident done to me by my own Caveman.

Yes, I know. I know.

I saw it all in his eyes and across his face. I heard it all in his voice. I felt it in his touch as he unzipped my wetsuit and peeled it off my shoulder. And it all made me instantly not want to bawl or howl or make a scene or be fussed over or anything that would make his pain or guilt or concern any more acute.

It was a Sunday morning spent surfing. It was pure perfection. We were coming in, and I ended my wave at the bottom of his wave hidden in his whitewater purely by accident--mainly because it is nature and you cannot always guarantee that where you go down is where you will come back up. When I did come up, I saw him; he did not see me; I even saw him looking for me. I even willed him to see me, but that plan did not work so well; I quickly moved to plan B, which was to cover my head and dive as deep as I could. I saw his board go over me, and I thought for an instant that he had cleared me. Then, there was the solid THUNK of the fin of his board hitting my back and dragging across to my arm; I heard my own scream under the water and then I had no air, I mean really,
(((I HAD NO AIR))) and I could hear the crinkling and bubbling of the air in me and I could feel my ribs moving at my back.

When I came to the surface and the whitewater had cleared and he finally saw me, the Caveman was at the shorebreak yelling if that was me that he had hit and if I was okay and "to get on my board and come here right now!" I was saying yes and yes and yes. I am a little embarrassed to say that I secretly wished the Caveman could reach across the water and just pluck me out and save me, you know, like he does on any given day.

Meanwhile, in my head, I was going through my own private checklist against panic and pain: Darya, you cannot even touch bottom! You cannot breathe! Fuck, this hurts! Calm your ass down. Just put your arm over the other arm and swim; pull on your leash; swim; pull; swim; pull. Grab your board. Get up on your board. Oh, thank God, there's a wave. Just ride it in. Get out of the water. Quickly! Untie your leash. Get away from your board! Yes, yes, yes, I am okay. I just need to take a knee--like a football player or a wrestler or a whatever. No, I am okay. Just let me catch my breath. No, I can walk. 

We walked down the beach to our stuff. He took another peek at my back to be sure nothing in me was not poking out of me and we looked at the three-inch gash in my wetsuit.  While he loaded up, I rinsed off at the showers thank God I did because that was to be my only shower for the next four days. We walked very silently and very quickly, as quickly as I humanly could.

And in my head I just kept the loop going: Darya, just walk down the beach. Darya, carry the board overhead, it's easier to breathe that way. Bag the boards. Stow your crap. Just keep walking. Walk over the sand. Walk over the bridge. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Stop and rinse off at the showers. Walk to the car. No. I can carry my own board. Yes, I am okay. No, just let me catch my breath. Really, I am okay. ::smiling, kinda:: 

But I just kept getting weaker. When I forfeited brunch and my usual Mexican coffee AND I asked to go to the ER, the Caveman knew, well, he just knew it was a big deal because no.1: I spend enough time in hospitals and no. 2: I do not like to part with my money, especially to our healthcare system.

To make matters all the worse, the Caveman had to endure watching me abide a four-hour ER wait-time before I even got to get in a bed or get seen by a physician or get my one intramuscular shot of totally ineffective pain medicine or get my chest x-ray. All that was nothing. The Caveman still had to do the hardest thing of all: He had to leave my side and make the hard phone calls to Daddy and Sister and oh, God to the Hero.

It would be another two hours before I was placed into the CT tube so that the chest tube could be placed into me. All in all, it had been nearly eight hours before I could breathe again.

Oh, well. I am strong. I am Dutch. I can take it.

It really does not matter. I took it.

Now that I am home, and I am back at work and the gym and needing to be 110%, but really feeling only about 70% things have really piled onto my shoulders, and I am beginning to keep count and keep score and the column that is against me is getting longer than the column that is for me. Just like the debit column is getting way shorter than the credit column or the other way around--I always forget which column is coming in and which column is going out. Maybe that's why I am always in so much trouble.  Hmmm...that's a poser, whad'ya think...

But, yes, yes, yes, I am okay. Just let me catch my breath. It has become my mantra it seems.

And maybe all I really need is to get in the water and get fully stoked just once. Just once.

Really, I am okay. Just let me catch my breath. Because honestly, what am I going to do? Step to God.

xoxo Darya

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