308 days on.

Upon returning from Aussies 2010 I learnt to walk again. I had been walking in the boot but without it, it was different. My right calf muscle had totally disintegrated. The muscle was like jelly with no structure at all. I was literally starting from scratch. In the beginning I would get tired easily. After completing my daily exercises and a day at work I couldn’t do much else.

Before too long I built up some strength. When my physio suggested I could start to try and run again, my eyes burst out of my head. This was exciting. However it was a slow process. Firstly I would start with 30min, jogging for 200m then walking. Gradually I would build up to a complete 30min jog. I remember this clearly. I returned home feeling so excited to have completed a 30min jog! Everything was fine but both legs felt different. My left leg felt normal, my right leg felt as though it had ran a marathon. This feeling went on for a while. Occasionally I would have shooting sparks fire up my right achillies. Thanks to my phyiso I could understood this was all part of the process. This was probably a nerve ending trying to figure out how to reconnect itself!

As frustrating as this process was, I kept pushing through. At times I felt like I was wrapping myself in cotton wool. Was I doing enough? Was I doing too much? Winter training had started and I eventually made it back onto the track. This was the scene of the crime. Being near the back straight at Olympic Park was creepy. I could almost feel the thud of my right ankle as it collapsed beneath me. None the less I started there with light run throughs. These built up, faster and faster. Before too long our squad moved to a grass track. This was a welcome change for my confidence.

Towards the end of June I had an appointment scheduled with my surgeon. I waited eagerly in the foyer, wondering what he would say this time. What would my instructions be and when would I see him next? Finally it was my turn. The appointment lasted about 10 minutes. He was happy with the progress my achillies was healing. I was free to go. Continuing with physio, I did not need to see him again. Just like that, seven months on, my achillies had grown back together. From my perspective there was still a lot of work to be done. I was a long way away from sprinting 90 metres down a beach sprint track.

October 4^th 2010 was a significant milestone for my return. Most of my competitors would have been preparing to for the world titles in Egypt. I completed my first time trial, 150 meters in just over 22 seconds. 308 day before my right ankle had snapped in two. This was a joyful day. I was so proud to get to this point.

Before too long, I had marked December 10^th in the diary. This would be my first race back. Clocking up training sessions, the days ticked down. As this date drew closer I started to doubt if I would be ready in time. This was as much a mental game as it was physical. I was scared and afraid. I wondered… ‘What… if I ruptured it again?’ ‘What if… it wasn’t ready?’ ‘What if I couldn’t run fast again?’ So what if…Only time would tell.

Aussies 2010 – Tragedy and standing on the wrong side of the fence.

Taking up photography meant I could be involved with the team at carnivals. Not that I needed an excuse. I wanted to be useful to the team. Taking photos gave me a buzz and I practiced my skills at surf carnivals. Just being there was exciting. Trampling up and down in the soft sand in my boot was tiering, but it didn’t stop me.

The Australian Surf Life Saving Championships has an indescribable atmosphere. In 2010 they returned to Kurrawa, QLD after three years at Scarborough beach, Perth. On the second day whilst I was waiting for events to start, a tragedy occurred. The entire beach of about 4000 competitors and spectators feel silent. Shock fell over the carnival as the word spread fast on the beach. The horrific news we heard was that a competitor was missing at sea. For the best part of 45 minutes we stood on the beach in silence. Nobody left, they just stood there looking out to sea. Jet skis and IRBs circled the ocean as helicopters buzzed above. The carnival was cancelled and people began to leave the beach. Later that day we were informed that they had found the young competitors body. Nobody knew what to do and everyone felt upset. The following day event organisers announced that all water events were cancelled. Beach events would be the only events completed at Aussies in 2010.

The beach competitors continued on their way. The heartbreaking events were so fresh in everyone’s minds. Saturday saw the beach sprints and relay final races. Anglesea performed outstandingly with finalists in the sprint and relay. Even better were the medals our men’s teams won. Standing on the sidelines was exciting. Cheering with enthusiasm as our team lined the fence. I couldn’t help wanting to be out there. Racing with the others.

Sunday was set to be a long day. The remaining flags heats and finals. What I really wanted to see was the opens women’s race. This was my event. What I had been training for throughout the winter. Standing on the wrong side of the fence was difficult. I wanted to be a part of the mix. To be racing off for those flags. Instead I bit my lip and came to terms with watching. I was still wearing the boot. One by one, girls were eliminated. Becoming harder and harder to watch each time. I snapped photos of every run off. My mouth was dry and I was silent. At last the event came to an end. Seeing triumph for the winner and placegetters. Some were disappointed. I was relieved. I could put it behind me and look forward to next year.

Walking away from the event was strange. The tragedy of Friday hung for a long time. The surf life saving community bound together. They left with feelings of sadness. They would return but no one would ever forget what happened on the beach and in the ocean that day.

Understanding rehab for a ruptured achillies.

Rehabilitation for a ruptured achillies is a long process. Everyone told me this, the doctors, physiotherapists and friends who had ruptured their achillies. Perhaps one of the longest required for an injury. My doctor told me it could take as long as 24 months to recover. If I was lucky as short as six, but generally around 12. A calculation in my head determined that there was a possibility I could race next season. Immediacy I cemented this as my goal. Without this, rehab for the sake of rehab would be tough. So there it was, I would learn to run again.

As soon as I could, I started fronting up to training. This would be mainly upper body and core stability sessions in the gym. Initially I would hop around with my crutches. Then I would hop around in my boot. Being back with the squad was wonderful. They were preparing to race the State Titles and Aussies. I got a buzz out of simply being around them. They were inspirational.

There were a lot of other rehab exercises that I had to commit. One thing that was made crystal clear to me was to “Do every exercise you are given, listen to your physio and do everything they say.” Ingrained in my mind, this message became the foundation blocks for the beginning of my rehab. My physio was amazing. Initially I saw him every two or three weeks. Soon this stretched out to four. We would talk about every facet of the injury. Including how my mind was coping. Seeing the physio was exciting, representing the next step in the recovery process. Some sessions were great, others I would be in tears. Every time I saw him, I would walk away with a handful of exercises to do. These would take anywhere up to an hour each day. Being back at work this meant getting up and hour earlier just so I could do them. It was a strenuous process and sometimes I didn’t want get up. But every day I got up. I would hear the voices in my head and the message “Do every exercise you are given, listen to your physio and do everything they say.” I’m still doing the exercises today 12 months later!

Third time lucky.

Saturday morning passed quite quickly. For the third time in six weeks I was down in the operating theatres. I was a regular now. The operation was over before I knew it. Again waking up unsure of what had happened. Again I came crashing back to reality in no time at all.

In total I spent seven days in hospital on the second stint. It was physically, mentally and emotionally draining. Visitors occasionally rolled in. My family was the first to support me. My training buddies and close mates also visited. Although it was the middle of summer the weather wasn’t that great. One day the rain pelted on the windows. I thought to myself ‘the weather was just as miserable as I was.’ In times like these my inner voice would speak out. It had been seemingly strong during this ideal. So much so that I even surprised myself at how well I was coping. This time it told me again to be positive. ‘There is a reason this had happened, you just don’t know it yet. Stop looking at the negatives.'

Looking back now, I believe it was my attitude that helped me though this injury and rehabilitation. In the first instance when the snap occurred, I didn’t break down. Carrying a brave face I looked forward unfazed by what had happened. This kept me in high spirits but also kept my feelings inside. When I returned from hospital for the second time, I broke. Emotion poured out and they heavy feelings set in. Fair enough too. What I built my body up to be had broken. 12 months of training and hard work down the drain. During this period I couldn’t do much but sit at home and wait. Thinking about my feelings, thinking about what had happened and thinking of ways to entertain myself.

There were times when I just couldn’t do anything at all. My back would ache from being in the same position. Sometimes I didn’t want to watch TV, I didn’t want to read and I didn’t want company. I would just sit and stare into space. Hoping that a magical idea would come along to cure my boredom.

Simple tasks became difficult. Showering, grocery shopping, getting from A to B. Being on crutches means not only do you loose you leg but you loose your arms and hands as well. Fortunately for me, during this time my sister had moved in. She did everything for me. I could not have coped and remained sain without her. I can’t thank her enough for her support during that time.

Nights were the hardest. I simply can’t recall how I managed. The pain and was discomfort unbearable. Like nothing I have experienced before. One night I gave up my fight to avoid the strong painkillers. I couldn’t remember how many to take. I took two. It worked like a treat, perhaps too well. Later that night I attempted to grab my crutches and head for the bathroom but it was no use. The drugs had knocked me out. I couldn’t even make it to the door. Returning to bed and out like a light.

This period was a tough time, but it had to be stuck out. Life is all about timing, I had decided. Things happen at certain times, for different reasons. I strongly believe this and still do. The reason why this I ruptured my Achilles when I did is still not clear to me. I don’t need to know that now, I just trust that one day it will become clear.

Take Two

When I got into hospital, I was put on a drip. Antibiotics were pumped through my body. For the entire night and day, I waited restlessly for the second operation. There was nothing else for me to think about. I just had to wait. Finally at about 7.30pm I was prepped for surgery. This time was much harder. I had been waiting for this all day. They wheeled me right into the theatre. Moving me onto the operating table. Aren’t they going to give me the anaesthetic now, I anxiously wondered? The table was narrow and hard. If I had moved, I would have fallen off. To add to my fears, I suddenly realised I had worn the wrong underwear. A lacy pair you could see right through. It was too late to worry about this now. Besides I’m sure they had seen worse. The surgeons prepped around me. I lay helplessly on the operating table in my lacy underwear.

All of a sudden, alarms started to sound. Trolleys rushed around me. Tension in the air heightened. I could feel the panic. An emergency code blue was called. The six or so doctors fled my operating theatre. This left the anaesthetist, one other girl and me. My anaesthetist explained to me that he should go to assist as well. The look on my face must have been shear horror. The girl explained that she would stay with me. Not that I could have gone anywhere. If I had moved a muscle I would have fallen off the table. Anxiety had been building through out the day and now this. I think my heart rate must have increased by about 40 beats per minute. I was on the verge of panic mode.

Soon everyone returned. No one said a thing; they just got on with their preparation. I was curious, but they acted as though nothing had happened. I wished they would hurry up and give me the anaesthetic. My anaesthetist then explained that the patient in the next operating theatre was having some problems. “There were some problems with his anaesthetic,” he said. My eyes jumped out of my head and my heart rate increased again. A needle was pushed into my hand, filling my veins with a cool fluid. It helped me relax. Again I tried to fight the anaesthetic and again I couldn’t. I let it have me. I was tired.

Again I flashed in and out of a dream before completely realising where I was. My leg was heavy. Strapped in half a plaster cast. This is called a back strap. It was late when I returned to the ward. The build up and anxiety of the day had got the better of me and I was out like a light. Sleeping wasn’t easy in hospital. My leg pined me down. Getting comfortable was difficult. Every four hours the nurse would wake me to refill the antibiotics and take my blood pressure. After this it would take me forever to get back to sleep.

My doctor returned in the morning to explain how the operation had gone. Apparently the wound was quite infected. So infected that he couldn’t stitch it closed. Underneath the back strap and bandages the back of my ankle was open. I could see my achillies if I looked hard enough. This felt a little strange. All of Friday was spent being filled with antibiotics. They would operate again on Saturday morning.

Back to square one.

My leg was in a plaster cast for two weeks. When it came off my ankle was incredibly stiff. I could barely move it. Would I ever get my foot flat on the ground again? The orthotist fitted me with a boot. My heal had to be chocked up about 5cm because it was so stiff. Gradually I would learn to move my ankle and remove the chunks of foam from under my heal.

The boot stayed on all the time. With the exception of three times a day when I did flexibility exercises. The boot had to be strapped on as tight as it would go. This was to assist in stretching my achillies back to normal size. Because I couldn’t move my ankle, circulation to my foot was poor. Often this would result in pins and needles. The straps on the boot were so tight it put pressure on a nerve in my foot. My second toe lost feeling. Sleeping with the boot on was awful. As the rest of my body would relax, my foot was stuck in the flexed position. Every night I would drift off to sleep, only to wake in 2 or 3 hours later. I would be in incredible discomfort and pain that is hard to describe. The type of pain that felt a knife was cutting into the back of my ankle. The type of pain that made my eyes water. But I would not take off the boot. Instead I would hit my leg with my hand. This would move the pain somewhere else. Sometimes I took painkillers. Other times I would cry until I was too tired to stay awake any longer. The feeling was unbearable.

My summer was spent on the deck at the Anglesea Surf Life Saving Club. I couldn’t go swimming. Being in the sun wasn’t good either. Sometimes I would go to training sessions just so I could hang out with the team. Not wanting to miss out, I went to as many surf carnivals as I could. I took up photography. Capturing countless photos of my teammates competing.

Three times a day I was relieved from the boot. I had to flex my foot as far as it would go. Then point my toe back and forth, back and forth. I was nervous about the wound and I didn’t look at it much. After some time, the wound began to weep and started to smell funny. I thought this was happening because I was moving it so much and didn’t get to wash it for so long.

After six weeks off work, I was able to return. Not to my normal role but to carry out modified duties. Work would keep me occupied. Going to work wore me out. On the third day I had a doctors appointment scheduled. I was looking forward to this, thinking I would be able to start walking in the boot. Unfortunately not, the news was much worse. The doctor examined my wound and after some time he said “its not looking good.” I sat in silence, anxious, confused and upset. What could possibly be wrong? I had done everything he’d instructed. He didn’t seem happy and kept saying, “This doesn’t look good.” Finally I asked exactly what he meant by “this is not looking good.” In a round about way he told me I had an infection. I would have to go back into hospital. Tonight. I’d have to have surgery again to clean out the infection. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, wishing I was anywhere but here. Did this mean I was back to square one?

On the way home I sat dumbfounded on the tram. The afternoon was hot. Tears welled in my eyes and my hair blew everywhere. A lump started to build in my throat. The reality of this injury started to become clear. The emotions I had been fighting for so long began to take over. I couldn’t put on a brave face anymore. When I got home I cried for a long time. So many thoughts were racing through my mind. I felt drained. At the end of the day I had to move on. Somehow I pushed the emotions aside. I had to.

The first surgery - Achilles repair.

Anticipation was building, as the day of my surgery got closer. Excitement isn’t the right word to describe how I was feeling. I was egger for that day to come. An achillies repair is not a major procedure. Patients are on the operating table for between 45 minutes to an hour. You spend a night in hospital and then you’re free to go.

The weather was miserable as my friend Dani drove me to the hospital. I met my surgeon who briefly discussed the operation. He marked my right leg with a black arrow and said, “just to make sure I remember which leg to open.” I’m not sure if it was his dry sense of humour. Maybe he was being serious. 

The fear factor didn’t really hit until I was wheeled into the waiting bay. Being so close to the operating theatre, you can sense what’s about to happen. My heart rate began to rise. A needle was pushed into my hand, filling my veins with a cool fluid. Instantly I relaxed. I tried to fight the anaesthetic but I couldn’t. I attempted to count to 10.  The curtain tracks wiggled like snakes as the voices around me mingled into one.

“Heat 2… Abby”. My heat of the beach flags race was being called. I fixed my racing cap and made my way over to the line. “Abby”. My eyes opened slightly. I closed them, back to the race. But it was too late. My name was called again. This time it wasn’t the race marshal it was the nurse. I had just been in a better place than where I was now. How could I to go back there? I closed my eyes again. Attempting one last time to put myself back in the dream. But the dream was over, at least for now. I couldn’t work out what was going on. My body was dead weight. I felt like I had been ‘hit by a bus’. The grogginess started to wear away and I came crashing back to life. This really had happened. There was no way I would be getting to that race, which had so recently seemed like reality.

My anaesthetist had put a ‘numb block’ on my leg. He explained that it would last for about 20 hours. This meant there was no immediate pain and no feeling in my leg, from my knee down. The doctors and nurses kept pinching my toes. I couldn’t feel a thing. At first I thought this was wonderful but as the day wore on, the fascination wore off. I just wanted my toes back.  

At about 4am, I got exactly that. My sleep had been restless and I woke in the early hours of the morning. Feeling was coming back to my leg; it was full of pins and needles. On a scale of one to ten, the pain was about seven. The nurse left to get something to relieve the ache. Until now, I had felt fine. In a matter of moments my right leg had returned. I have never experienced physical pain like this before. I was in agony. As though a knife had been pieced into the back of my ankle. Now the pain was about 20 out of ten. Where was the nurse with the painkillers? Uncontrollably my eyes filled with tears that I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t stay still and moving amplified the pain. Finally the nurse arrived and I swallowed down the drugs. I thought they would work instantly. But I battled the tears, the agony and the knife for a little longer. Before to long I crashed. Falling asleep and unaware of the pain I had just experienced.

I knew what had happened, Id ruptured my achilles.

Collapsed in a pile in the middle of Olympic Park, I immediately knew I had sustained a major injury. Running was my favourite hobby. Considering this, I handled the immediate situation remarkably well. I didn’t cry from the physical pain and I didn’t break down from the emotional pain. Instead my mind started to break down the events that had just occurred.

Standing up was difficult. My foot dangled in the air as though it didn’t belong to the rest body. I knew immediately this was a major injury. Deep down inside I knew what had happened, Id ruptured my achilles tendon. Yet I wouldn’t allow my mind to believe this until it was proven. The doctor proved this in about 30 seconds the following day. The news flicked a switch inside me, turning on my emotional response. Instantly tears welled up in my eyes. I bit firmly on the inside of my left cheek hoping this would stop them.

I learnt the ramifications and rehabilitation timeframes later that week. 12 months for a full recovery is normal, sometimes 24, but potentially 6 if you’re really lucky. I don’t think I could have chosen an injury with a longer rehabilitation process. The damage was done and to my surprise I pushed my feelings of despair aside, to solider on. Surgery was booked for the following week. I would miss a season of racing and this time next year I would start again.

I love the feeling of running fast!

I love the feeling of running fast. When you can be lost in the moment. Moving your legs and arms as quickly as they can take you. Relaxing your body into the rhythm and the pace. Feeling the coolness of the wind speeding past your cheeks. Your hair fly’s behind you and your face is cold. All you can think about is what you can do to go faster. Your arms glide back and forth and your legs follow stretching out. Your feet gracefully take the weight of your floating body, impacting on the firm surface.

Suddenly, impact is heightened and your muscles tense. The movements are graceful but the surface is hard and the load becomes harder.  Tension increases and you continue gracefully left, right, left. BANG! Your foot strikes the surface to take the weight, but not this time. In a split second you feel a sudden thump come from below. Your heel falls away to the ground, leaving your leg behind. This feeling is like nothing else, intense and entirely unbearable for a moment in time. Confusion clouds the rhythmic pace as you plant your left foot. At this speed there is no other option. You have not choice but to take the next stride. Unable to stop your floating foot hits next with no ability to control. Everything collapses beneath you. Your body hits the ground hard, folding on top of itself. Your mind a flurry as the grace eludes you.

15 months on and I still remember like it was yesterday.