Scar Tissue

When I was 15-years-old I had the opportunity to redefine myself. Prior to Labor Day weekend in 1983 I was an athlete. I played a sport every season and had a fair amount of success at it. I spent every available moment conditioning or practicing or participating. My teammates were my friends. My goals centered around sports. I was an athlete.

Starting in about third grade I had spent a portion of most summer weekends on water skis. Each year we knew that after Labor Day our weekends at the lake would become less frequent and so we always tried to squeeze in as much skiing as possible during that 3-day period. By the time I was 15, I had been slaloming for quite a long time. I loved the quick cuts across the water and jumping across waves. To ski on two skis was barely worth the effort of getting into the water. It was one ski or nothing for me. Our family had one ski that could enhance this experience like no other. It was an old, heavy wooden ski of my dad's. The weight of the ski made it unstable during the process of lifting out of the water but if that could be overcome, it was as if you were gliding across ice unfettered by the friction of ski against water.

In order to stabilize this ski during take off, I would put the front tip of the ski in the yoke of the rope. As the boat blasted off, I would simultaneously emerge from a wall of water and lift the rope off the ski. On this last Saturday of summer something went terribly wrong with my timing.

As my dad engaged the full force of the boat's engine, the handle of the rope slipped out of my hands. The handle first lodged against my bent knee and eventually slid down to my foot. When that happened the ski kicked backwards and bent my knee to a 90-degree angle the wrong way. The ski dove downward into the water and I was dragged behind the boat by my mangled leg. My dad was driving the boat. My mom was the spotter. They didn't realize that any of this was happening until my brother, who was skiing next to me, motioned for them to cut the motor. I had destroyed the inner workings of my knee. Ligaments and tendons were ripped in half. Skin held the top half of my leg to the lower half.

A two-hour ambulance ride delivered me to a hospital affiliated with the University of Illinois. My dad's network of connections delivered the athletic department's orthopedic surgeon to my bedside.

After a four-hour surgery the doctor explained to my parents that most likely I would never walk again without a cane or crutch. Mine was the worst knee injury he had ever seen. I was too young to be a candidate for knee replacement so he did his best to repair with synthetic materials, steel rods and portions of my hamstring.

During my doctor's first visit to me after surgery, I asked if I worked really hard, could I be ready for basketball season in the late fall? He said no. I was crestfallen but asked if I would be ready for softball in the spring? The doctor with the amazing surgical skills and horrible bedside manner said: "Your goal should be to walk. You'll never play any sport ever again. If you clumsily fall off a curb, you could undo all my work and there is nothing else I can do for you." With that he turned and walked out of my room.

I spent the next nine months in a cast that stretched from hip to toe and a full year on crutches. I spent the rest of high school trying to figure out where I fit. I was suddenly the girl who had the accident. The girl on crutches. The girl who wore sweatpants every day for a year because they were the only thing that fit over the cast.

Once all the casts and braces were removed I was left with a leg emaciated from a year of inactivity. My knee was swollen and misshapen. I had a hideous 8-inch scar on one side and a 5-inch scar on the other. When it was so hot that the only reasonable option was to wear shorts, invariably a complete stranger would approach me with "OH MY GAWD! What happened to your leg?" It wasn't exactly the kind of attention that a high school girl craves. Eventually my irreverence kicked in full time and I would explain that I cut it shaving.

Any time I sat down I began to instinctively cover my knee with my hands. It was a futile attempt to have people notice something, anything else about me. When my team stopped inviting me to parties, I touched my knee. When we would drive by a softball field or I saw a basketball game on tv, I ran my fingers along the scar. It was the ever-present, hideous reminder of what I lost.

Prior to the accident I was involved in church. I participated in youth group activities. I paid attention during Sunday School and learned Bible stories. I had a faith based on gratitude. I was thankful for all my blessings and in some crazy one-sided deal I made with God, I thought if I were good, the blessings would continue. Church was something I did but my faith didn't define who I was.

My accident was the true beginning of my faith journey. I learned I could scream at the God who had allowed this. I could rail at the God who didn't live up to my self-made bargain of "blessings in exchange for being good." I could unleash my fury at my loss. And, there was comfort. In the quiet of the night I could replay the events of that day. Had I not washed the sun tan lotion off my hands? Did the handle slip because of greasy hands? Had I pushed myself too far? Was I too tired to ski that last time? Was there a problem with the ski? With the rope? With the boat? I could question why the most important thing in my life had been taken away. And, there was comfort.

I learned I could scream. I could sob. I could question. And I learned that all would be well.

I also learned the names and the stories of all sorts of people--the people I wouldn't have had time for if I were still playing. I had time to read. I had time to listen. I had time to work through my loss of identity. I spent time on my burgeoning faith.

Over the past year I have been through a refinement process. Redefine seems much too drastic. I would now argue, looking through my almost 43-year-old lenses, I really hadn't been able to define much at all by age 15 so I'm not sure I had to re-define anything. So maybe my water skiing accident was about refining me also. Maybe that is what all the periods of loss, of hurt, of questioning are designed to do. They continue to refine us.

The events of this year didn't leave me with a physical scar to touch but nonetheless has left me with just as many lessons.

I have learned about the loss of friendship and that has allowed me to hear the stories of a different circle of people. I spent time questioning whether I could continue to belong to "that church" and now I am able to call it my church. I have learned about my need for worship. I have learned that worship isn't a performance to please me as much as it is a conduit for my connection to the Holy.

I learned that I could scream. I could sob. I could question. And I learned that all would be well.