Writing is scary. The best writing opens the door to one's very soul, but it's not easy leaving one's self so exposed. What if people reject you? What if your best isn't good enough? What if your struggles are insignificant and pathetic and your feelings impotent and shallow? What if your deepest worries are foolish and irrational? What if this whole becoming-an-adult thing is not at all as you had imagined it and at 24 years old you find yourself once again living with your parents? What if you have a constant, suffocating pain which starts in your chest and goes up to your throat when you think about your love, your best friend, who is thousands of miles away because you know you won't see him for more than two months and despite the amazing new technologies which allow you to communicate virtually, it's not the same?
I still haven't answered my initial problem: how does one write about such things? I'm at least going to try:
I'm back in the US, in Dallas, Texas to be more precise, and suffering from culture shock, slight depression, and 100 degree heat all at once. My family and I, along with the coaching and medical staff of River Plate women's soccer, all agreed that returning to the US for ACL surgery and the initial part of the 6-month rehab process would be best for me. Honestly, it took quite a bit of convincing to get me to agree to leave Buenos Aires, I had complete confidence in the club doctors who would have operated on me as they are the same ones who have performed the same surgery numerous times on first division and youth Argentine professional players. The post-op logistics, however, were what pushed me decisively toward heading back stateside for surgery.
In the month and a half between my injury and my trip to the US, time which was spent fighting against muscle atrophy in my injured leg and working to regain complete mobility in my knee, trying to get to and from rehab without a car was complicated. The team doctor, as well as my own mother, forbade me to take public transport, as an unstable knee and crazy bus drivers make for a bad combination and would put me at risk for further injury. I was forced to depend upon friends with cars who, for obvious reasons, were not always available to take me to and from physical therapy at the club, which is on the other side of the city from where I live in Buenos Aires, and in those cases I had to spend about 25 times the bus fare for the same trip to take a taxi.
Et voilà, here I am, in Texas once again, but this time not voluntarily. Although I'm thankful to be able to spend more time with my family and to see close friends after more than a year in some cases, it's impossible not to miss Buenos Aires in all its hectic glory. It's as though I have been torn out of the ground and planted in a parallel universe, but my roots were left behind; my body is in Dallas, but my heart and thoughts remain in Argentina with my team, my school, and my Cris.
Yesterday morning I met with the orthopedic surgeon who will operate on me. A tall, heavyset man with years and years of experience and hundreds of knee surgeries under his belt, he assured me I would be fine and come out of this as good as new—with the stipulation that I faithfully follow his instructions throughout my recovery. After he explained the details of the procedure, which kind of graft he recommended for the ligament replacement (for those interested he will be using a hamstring graft), what the recovery will look like over the course of 6 months, and other information I've already forgotten just a day later, the nurse came in and in what seemed like only 5 minutes gave me a million instructions of what I would need to do immediately before the procedure and in the weeks following. I tried to pay attention, but I felt my mind wandering and wondering why I had to go through all this in the first place. Why couldn't I just have tipped the ball all the way over the crossbar? Had I known that this was going to happen, maybe I should have just let it in. But I can't go back in time—though I wish I could.
Something I've been repeating to myself and to others who express their sympathy for my injury (but mainly for myself) is "everything happens for a reason" though I'm not sure yet what the reason is right now.
The surgery has been set for Monday, and I'm anxious to start the rehab process to get closer to being able to do what I love once again.
This weekend, though, my mind will not be on my surgery but on my team as we have to face our biggest rival, Boca Jrs., in the Superclásico of women's soccer. This year the stakes are as high as ever, with 2 former River players (who didn't leave on particularly friendly terms) featured in Boca's starting line-up and the league championship on the line. I wish I could be there to watch in person, even more so I wish I could be playing (this is the second Superclásico I'll miss due to injury), but I'll have to settle for cheering from a distance and through Whatsapp.
Dale River Carajoooooooo!!!!
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