remember, remember…

Dry and cool, Colorado does October like virtually no place else.  I was nervous, but the massive blue sky and imposing Rocky Mountains spoke a peace into my soul.

I had stayed with friends the night before in Denver – The Smiths.  Their summer home was in Florida and had welcomed me to crash their couch in Colorado.  We had a big dinner after their son Zack’s 6th grade lacrosse practice. I chatted with their daughter Alli about the anxst and excitement of 8th grade. They were different than they were in Florida. They were tighter, but i suppose the boundaries of a family unit naturally don’t exist as much during long Florida summer days by the beach.  They were happy.

I wound my way through the mountains up to Vail.  My appointment was at 2 and by 11 or so, I didn’t feel anything.  It was because of nerves, but not the kind you think.  My knee was gnarled from a surgery earlier that year.  The constant neuron fires coming from my knee were now being ignored by my brain.  I was in pain all the time but I didn’t know.  My body would physiologically respond, but I was unaware of the toll it was taking.  I only knew I needed a miracle – and this guy was my last hope.

This was my first trip to Vail – exit 176 on I-70 – I didn’t know what to expect.  As I got lost in the quaint village, inspecting it all like a kid at Disney, I thought about my parents.  They met at camp in the Rockies.  I had a vague recollection that my best friend’s parents, the Whitmire’s had met on a ski-trip here too.

I turned my phone off, which I rarely do now but never did then.  I knew there were texts and voicemails waiting…but I needed some time.  I’d call the Turners – whose lives I thrust into after a bizarre series of events landed me at their house for 3 weeks after my 1st surgery – when I had something to tell.  In the meantime, I walked around the village and down West Meadow Drive to the hospital.

When the elevators opened on the 4th floor, I saw the longest hallway I’ve ever seen.  Ironic, I thought, to make a bunch of orthopedic patients trek down this epic corridor.  It was a hall of intimidation, lined with signed jerseys, movie posters, and diplomatic seals top to bottom left to right for probably 20 yards.  All of them said something to the affect of how he did the impossible and how grateful they were.  I knew this guy was good – I didn’t know he was that good.

I checked in and saw a deck outside of the waiting room overlooking the mountain.  Vail is quiet in October.  I got out my phone and snapped a picture.  Sunny and spectacular, there wasn’t a flake of snow on the ground.  I felt at home on the deck; we Florida people, we gravitate toward sun.

Soon enough I was in an exam room and he came in.  The 6’5″ broad-shouldered blue-eyed legend, Dr. J. Richard Steadman.  He reminded me of my grandfather – not because he was old, but because he was kind, smart, and had an endless smile.  He had been briefed on my case before he came to shake my hand – so when he sat down and said, “I know you’ve told your story, but I want to hear it.  I want to hear what you’ve been through from you.  I want to know what it means to you to be limited by this and how that makes you afraid.” I became connected and engaged.

i spent an hour being asked questions, laughing, showing off the 8 month old bruises on my cantaloupe-sized knee, and being captivated by one of the greats.

Finally the verdict came down.  Eagerly awaiting the answer from this man, this man who wrote the book on knees – who has put everyone back together so they can add olympic gold and superbowl diamonds to their collections, I sat blankly.  It had been 8 1/2 months with no answer.

“I don’t know”  he said, “I’m going to have to go in and look.”  by going in, of course, he meant surgery.  Which isn’t unusual for surgeons, especially of his breed.  They don’t care about insurance and malpractice; they are hands-on guys. They might not navigate finances or management or relationships well, but they know the inside of a joint and that is their championship crown.  They aren’t afraid to get in and get messy.  I still like that about him.  We agreed; he would operate.  I would call when I could work out a date.  I’d return to Vail and we’d go from there.

That was three years ago today.

——–

The Smiths live in Florida full-time now.  Adrienne, the mom, has been battling cancer for the past year and a half.  They are close and happy; I have seen them define family and marriage.

My parents split up, kind of.  What was an increasingly inconvenient diagnosis for my dad has become debilitating.  Mom moved him into assisted living.  In conversation a few months ago she admitted the complexity and difficulty that plagued their entire relationship – which I always knew.

The Whitmires, on a typical Florida Christmas eve that year, said that Janet would go with me in January to take care of me after surgery.  I burst into tears that night.  She gave me a big hug.  I didn’t cry a lot then.  This July, in their house that’s now in Jackson Hole, they prayed for me.  I burst into tears that night too. I cry a lot more now.

There was no way I could have known the events that would unfold in the three years between that day and this one.

I couldn’t have imagined then the couple dozen trips I’d take for surgery and check-ups and injections. I didn’t yet have favorite places, I hadn’t yet made the memories, I could not have guessed I’d fall in and out of love with a guy who lived in one of those houses on West Meadow Drive.  I didn’t know the Turners would become people I call when I have nothing to say at all.

Part of me wants to forget…there are a lot of memories in those mountains. But a mountain has as much of an uphill struggle as it does an impressive view.  I want to forget the missteps and mistakes.  I want to erase the stories of how my old annoying and awkward tendencies came to life and died in those years. I want to skim over the difficult and go straight to the magnificent.

But God keeps saying “remember.”  Over and over again in Deuteronomy, when the Israelites reach the promised land, He says “remember, remember the place from which you came, remember the desert.”  Why? Why is it so important to remember? I’m in a better place now.  I’m different now.  But today, staring at this date, I remember who I was and what these years have held.  And it’s good.  It’s right.

I really didn’t know then that I would heal or even if I could be fixed.  I had no idea that God would heal my heart through that process way more than He did my knee.  If I didn’t remember that, it would not be as profound to say that I am healed; that I was made different, by events, people, places, and circumstances I didn’t plan and couldn’t have predicted.

that is the fullness of the miracle.

and i will remember it all.

¹¹ I will remember the deeds of the LORD; yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will consider all your works and meditate on all your mighty deeds.”