A few days before Halloween, I fell. I fall on a semi-regular basis, so that part’s unremarkable. As a self proclaimed “good faller,” I’ve always prided myself on getting away with just a banged up knee or bruised elbow. But this fall was different. This one landed me in the urgent care CT scanner a few hours later to rule out a facial fracture. Worse, it also threatened to put a major crack in my defensive shield.

We had spent the earlier part of that day having fun at my younger son’s school Halloween carnival. This year was especially enjoyable as I finally ditched my witch’s costume (worn on repeat for seven years) in favor of being a unicorn. I cruised around campus in my mall cop scooter, chatting with friends and showing off my newly acquired stick-on face jewels.

Unfortunately, Sunday mornings out with my family come at a cost. I swim on Sunday mornings. It’s one of only two workouts per week. In my pre-disease life, skipping a workout was relatively inconsequential. It was disappointing, sure. (I enjoy a good endorphin rush as much as anybody.) But it wasn’t anxiety-provoking. It didn’t feel threatening. I didn’t live in the constant state of hypervigilance I do now – always worrying if I’m doing enough to preserve and maintain the muscle strength I have left. The phrase, “use it or lose it,” never relentlessly reverberated throughout my mind. I used to get to be lazy. Laziness is a luxury no longer afforded to me.

And so, despite it getting dark and not feeling in the mood, I gathered my things and headed to the pool.

For the last couple of years, my mom has joined me on Sunday mornings. It’s a chance for us to catch up and for her to help me navigate what is an increasingly tricky physical environment. I didn’t reach out to her that afternoon because I planned for a shorter swim on my way to pick up my older son. It’s not as if I only ever went with her.

I actually finished with some time to spare.  It was colder than usual and I really wanted to warm up before heading back outside.(As my muscles slowly waste away, so does a layer of my body’s natural insulation. This basically leaves me feeling cold a lot of the time.) 

I stared at the open shower off to the side. Up until about a year ago, I would head upstairs for a hot shower after swimming. Sometimes even a steam sauna. It was a lovely ritual. But then the staircase to the showers, along with the long walk through the locker room, became too treacherous. Inevitably, as is so often the case, the cost-benefit balance shifted. I begrudgingly whispered another good-bye and quietly transitioned to using the pool shower to rinse off. Eventually, even that felt too effortful. Now I just dry off on the chair I’ve strategically placed by the edge of the pool and take my shower at home.

But that afternoon, I really wanted to treat myself to a hot shower. I convinced myself that if I could just be extra careful…

Turns out, I made it. Unscathed. A huge relief considering all I could think about en route was how upset my mom would’ve been had I fallen. “Why didn’t you call me to come with you?” I could hear her say with a voice equal parts love, worryand frustration. Feeling triumphant, I slowly made my way back to my chair.

The next thing I knew, I was face down on the tile. Before I had time to process, blood started gushing out of my nose. My left eye started closing without my permission. I touched my finger to my eyelid and realized it was rapidly ballooning. My head was throbbing. “Stay calm. Ice. Ice. You just need ice. Just get some ice.”

I sat up on the tile floor in my wet bikini, stunned, holding a towel to my nose, trying to figure out my next move. I glanced at the pool. Two swimmers were still doing their laps.  I needed to tell someone, but I couldn’t get up. Not just because I was so shaken, but because I can’t really get up off the floor very well at all anymore, no matter where I am.

I peered through the glass into the first floor gym and saw a woman motioning to a man while pointing up at me. It was clear she had seen what happened. She ran up the stairs to check on me. I told her I was okay, but I just needed ice. I was so worried my eye was going to swell shut. 

A minute later, she came back. This time with a trainer, but no ice. I wasn’t sure where the communication had failed. I politely reiterated that I was okay, but if they could please just get me some ice. 

The trainer came back. But with ice in a plastic cup. I didn’t have time to question how it was that a gym didn’t have a single ice pack. I simply took the cup and asked if she wouldn’t mind grabbing me a plastic bag from the locker room.  I made my way to the chair. I texted my husband and told him I had a little fall and asked if he could pick up our older one. I would be home soon. 

Strangers walking by asked if I was okay. “Yes, yes, thank you.” It was awkward and uncomfortable. I still hadn’t dressed. I was desperate to know what my face looked like. “How bad was it? Did I need to be worried? Is this what a concussion feels like?”

I quickly realized I was too afraid to get up and move anywhere on my own. I texted my husband again asking if he could swing by after pick up. When he showed up, I looked at him and started sobbing. Sobbing for what had happened, sobbing for what I had put on him.(Just that morning his dad had surgery for a fractured hip from a fall the day prior.)

He held me, told me I didn’t look too bad and then delicately walked me to my car. I went home. I was freezing. I showered and cried some more.

My face was transforming by the minute. Did I have a periorbital fracture? Some sort of traumatic brain injury? We decided I should probably go to the urgent care. He ordered the CT from home before we left. He put me in a hospital wheelchair when we got there. It was the urgent care where he does his on-call shifts. They fast tracked me through to the scanner. 

As the tech helped me lie down onto the machine, she asked if I had just been in a car accident. Of course she did. I couldn’t blame her. I stared up at the painted cloud panels on the ceiling as my body slowly glided into the machine. A deep sense of loneliness overcame me- a notably strange and unfamiliar feeling for me. As tears quietly streamed down my face, I wondered how it was that this was my life.

As it turned out, aside from some sinus issues and a deviated septum, I was okay. Nothing was broken.

I’m not sure what happened after that night. I don’t know if the flood of gratitude and relief for it not having been worse washed away the majority of my emotional discomfort. (Can’t say the same for my physical pain.) I don’t know if my ability to bounce back so quickly was continued evidence of what feels like a more permanent residence in the land of acceptance around my disease. Or perhaps it was actually denial masquerading as acceptance as I rationalized why I didn’t have to worry or think too much about the next adaptation since after all, this accident happened while doing something I didn’t need to do. It wasn’t essential to my daily functioning.

What I do know is that I continued to be in awe of the human body- specifically the skin’s ability to stretch and deflate and morph into so many colors throughout the healing process. (In my business, we call that defense “intellectualization.“) I know that I became an expert at using my younger son’s yellow Halloween face paint for days afterwards to offset the purple bruising. And I know that eventually I felt like some sort of disabled warrior badass and stopped covering it up when I went out.

Most of all, I knew that I wasn’t going to let a deformed black eye interfere with trick-or-treating with my kids on Halloween night, so I did what anyone would do. I put on my costume, painted on a second black eye, got on my scooter and went out as a Raccoonicorn.