By Allen Neece

What do you do when your body suddenly rebels against you? What do you do when you’re instantaneously rendered immobile, unable to walk without the aid of crutches? What do you do when your holistic sense of physical well-being crashes and burns, a smoldering wreckage adding volumes to the L.A. smog levels, leaving a stunned mind grasping to comprehend just what the frickin’ heck has happened? What do you do when a debilitating injury such as a ripped Achilles’ tendon seemingly occurs out of the blue with no plausible explanation, as if the proverbial thunderbolt from above had finally struck down the nay-saying atheist?

I don’t have an answer yet and perhaps I’ll never come up with one. Granted, I’ve spent the past ten days or so lolling around my apartment here in Echo Park, parked on the couch, staring absently out the window at the tree line across the arroyo. If I can see beyond the ridge the outlines of the Santa Susana Mountains across Glendale, across the Valley, then the air quality’s not bad. If I can actually see the mountains, then the air’s good to go. If I can’t see beyond the ridge at all, if I can only see an ominous brown haze, then, well, I try not to think what it means for my lungs. Although the initial shock of experiencing this certifiably traumatic injury quickly receded, I’m now dealing with the aftermath. The surgery took place last Friday and the lower left calf is now fully immobilized. The doctor, being the professional he is, absconded after the operation; I have no idea how many sutures and/or stitches I have. For all I know, he probably lifted tendons from leftover porcine cadavers and stuffed them here and there into my calf. Yes, they do that. Anything to save a buck.

My left leg hurts but not from the injury but from the lack of exercise. Actually, my knee and quadriceps ache from the lack of weight bearing. I can feel, even see, the muscles atrophying day by day. My right gluteus maximus, by contrast, has grown, no doubt from all the one-legged pissing, squatting, hopping and lurching about it has been subjected to (when I start wearing jeans again, one butt is gonna be bigger than the other, a weird sight to behold I’ll be sure). I blow the right ankle, tendon, big toe, or whatever, and I’m truly paddleless up a particular odious, brown creek.

I’m not a religious person. Like I said, I’m an atheist (I just had to say that twice, huh?). Consequently, I can’t say I’ve been sitting around, wringing my hands and tearing my hair out, chalking up this disaster to an act of a peeved God. I mean it’s not like God was up there in his Control Room, scanning the monitors when he happened across the Allen Neece Channel and decided to tap the “Smite” key.

“That punk, this’ll teach the bugger a lesson,” God muttered to himself.

SNAP went the tendon.

I’m tempted to believe this theory as the visuals are awesome and, at the least, it provides an easy way out of deconstructing this whole mess I’m in.

However, I’ve spent enough days now scrutinizing every possibility and I guess the only real explanation I have for this calamity of stupendous proportions is that I need to “listen” to my body more. I don’t do any high-impact sports; the last time I did any was when I was hashing in D.C. six years ago. Nowadays, I do spinning, yoga, stair climbing, swimming, and hiking (all very Californian, yo). In fact, it might have been the 10 and 15 milers that I pulled off when I was up in Big Sur a few weeks back. I purposely sought out the “strenuous” labeled trails and charged up them ranges, carrying along as if I’m still 20 years old, swaggering my 6’4, 230 lbs frame up to the summits; upon return to the tent, nonchalantly neglecting to follow protocol and stretch prudently, thanking my quivering muscles, instead pounding myself on the back and cracking open the waiting frosty brewskis; “Yeehaw!” I screeched and gesticulated to myself in a shrill Deaf voice as I staggered around the fire, alarming the families encamped near-by. Okay, you get the picture.

I teach high school in Los Angeles. To be more succinct, I teach English to deaf teenage Latinos. It’s the toughest job I’ve ever had. Now, add a severed Achilles’ tendon to this picture and it’s suddenly the all-new Tenth Circle of Hell. I can already picture the scenario as I return to work a week from now, lugging myself slowly down the hallway through the gauntlet as my students hoot with derisive glee. They’ll no doubt pilfer the crutches and leave me mewling on the floor. The swine! I’ll like to see them try that.

Good Crom, this is what happens when I stare out the window all day and let my imagination run amok. Seriously, my students aren’t evil and they wouldn’t do anything like that. Hmmm. Of course, there’s always a first time.

I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say here. I was trying to wax poetical about debilitating injuries, hoping to share some insights from lying on my butt for days on end, thinking I would try and close this Blog with something cheesy like, “Always accentuate the positive in a negative situation” which is true and good and all, but I’d rather go out with something more substantial like, “the next time you have a bad day, just be glad you don’t have a torn Achilles tendon to deal with”. Somehow that doesn’t quite nail it either but I think you get the idea.

Allen Neece was born deaf in Washington, DC to a hearing family and grew up mainstreamed across the river in Arlington, VA. He has a B.A. in English and an M.A. in Deaf Education from CSUN. He has had a slew of jobs over the years: five summers of life guarding, forest fire fighter in Idaho, fish packer in Alaska, caption writer for the Caption Center, touring member of the National Theatre of the Deaf, among others. He currently teaches English to deaf secondary students in Los Angeles (Echo Park in the house, y’all!). He still nurses a lifelong passion for punk rock, hip-hop, politics, and adventures in the great outdoors. He has only four tattoos.