Back in action

After an unjustifiably long hiatus from blogging, I'm back and determined to post with a more reasonable frequency—one which is yet to be determined.

I know that in my last post I promised to talk about love, but I've changed my mind since then (don't fret my dear friends, the loooooove post will come eventually) since I have some other news to report.

Almost 8 months ago, on June 8, 2014, during a game against Estudiantes de La Plata in Buenos Aires, Argentina, I tore my ACL (anterior cruciate ligament), MCL (medial cruciate ligament), and meniscus in my left knee. I was then operated on just over 6 months ago on July 28, 2014 in Dallas, TX, USA. Despair, pain, and fear ruled my emotions, and the light at the end of the tunnel seemed infinitely far away.

Well, I'm happy to say that I've reached the other side of the tunnel, and the light is even brighter than expected. While missing out on some big games and international tournaments was certainly frustrating, through the surgery and rehabilitation process I know I was able to grow immensely, overcoming the physical and emotional hurdles which come with a such an injury.

I learned how setting and working diligently toward short term goals while maintaining the end goal in focus is essential to success. I learned how patience and trust in those with previous experience and wisdom (in this case the surgeon, Dr. James Montgomery, and the physical therapists at TOA/D1 Dallas who guided me through the process) is better than rushing and trying to do things on one's own. I learned how depending on family and friends in tough times is not a sign of weakness but instead a necessary reminder of how life is best lived in community.

Also, to everybody who encouraged me throughout these last 8 months, from family to friends (in the US, Argentina, Romania, and all over the world) to teammates to coaches to rivals and to those who don't fit into any of those categories, thank you. We tend to underestimate the power of words and their ability to influence for good or evil, but during my recovery, the messages of encouragement were invaluable to me, pushing me onwards even when things got painful, frustrating, or even repetitive and boring. So, to those who are at some point along the ACL rehab process, take this blog as just that, a word of encouragement to keep going even when you don't want to think about doing another leg raise or single leg squat.

Looking back, the months since my injury and surgery appear to have flown by, although I know that in the moment, the days seemed to crawl by at times. Now, finally cleared to participate in practices (non-contact for the first couple weeks), it almost feels as though I was never hurt, that I'm starting a new season just like the rest of my team, trying to earn my spot back on the field and working towards our goal of winning the league championship.

As of now the only thing I can report is that after a week and a half of preseason with my team (Club Atlético River Plate of Buenos Aires, Argentina), I feel just as I should: sore all over but happy to be playing again.

Football and Friendship, what more does one need?

After reading my last post, it’s very possible, and even more so for those of you who don’t play soccer or have a direct connection with women’s soccer, you have been wondering why the heck does this girl care so much about soccer? Why does she get so excited about a sport that, even though it is the world’s most popular sport, at the end of the day is just a game?

I could tell you it’s because of the competition, the adrenaline pulsing through my veins when I make my way onto the field, shake hands with the opponent and wait anxiously for the referee’s whistle to signal the beginning of the match, the emotion which takes over after a spectacular save which leaves the opposing fans in silence after they had started to cheer just a second too soon, the feeling of pure joy after winning a championship, a clásico, a hard fought game. I could tell you it's because of the life lessons soccer offers such as hard work, dedication, healthy lifestyle, punctuality, patience, and sacrifice. I could even tell you it's because of the recognition which comes with being a female athlete, but then you'd really realize I would be lying.

I'm not saying that those are not valid motives, nor that they do not contribute significantly to my love for soccer, but none of them is the main reason—I recognize that love often cannot be explained by reason, but sometimes it can, as in this case. If my love for soccer was for any, or even all, of the reasons listed above, I would have stopped playing years ago; I might not have even finished playing out my four years of college eligibility. No, if it was for any of those reasons, I would definitely not be writing this blog, living in Argentina, and playing at River Plate; I would most likely be in medical school somewhere in the US, which my parents might have preferred, but that's another story... Anyway, why am I saying all this?

This past weekend, my best friend came to visit me, another player who, like me, is not yet ready to hang up her cleats and leave the game behind. We met at my first college, the University of South Florida, where I studied and played for two years before transferring to Rice University (no it's not named after the food...). We weren't close friends from the start; it took a little while for us to realize we had a lot in common: our faith, our way of thinking, goals, values, sense of humor (okay, I would like to think that, but the reality is she's way funnier than I could ever hope to be), among many other things, but on the field, the situation was completely different. She was our starting defensive center midfielder, was named captain her freshman spring, and was a consistent figure for the team throughout her four seasons while I mainly maintained a marginal role, on the sidelines if you will, as the backup for our ridiculously athletically talented starting goalkeeper. Despite the differences in our college soccer careers, we became friends, and, since then, our friendship has continued to grow. I consider her my sister, a blessing from God, and we are united by an intimate bond which I'm sure will last a lifetime. 

Well, all this to say that, in my opinion, what makes soccer so special are the relationships which are born and cultivated through it. I use my best friend as an example but I could tell you countless stories of other footballing friendships and relationships which have influenced and molded me in some way.

I remember goofing off with my high school soccer teammates at practice and on road trips, hanging out with my sister who was also on the team and realizing she was actually not as dorky as I had imagined but really one of the wittiest girls I've even known (don't get too cocky while reading this, Vanessa...).

I remember how at Rice, despite having a miserable soccer career and experience—easily the worst two years of soccer of my life—I met friends, professors, and mentors who inspired, challenged, and loved me and continue to do so today.

I vividly remember taking off from the international airport in Buenos Aires in 2011, leaving behind my second time training with the Argentine Women's National Team. I can picture the scene exactly, looking out the window at the endless city lights illuminating the pitch black with tears rolling down my cheeks, not because of the disappointment of not being able to continue training with the national team due to complications and delays in the citizenship process but because of the pain of leaving the girls behind, especially not knowing when, or if, I'd see them again (now there are a few I see too often at River... I'm just kidding, I love them and they are a huge blessing in my life).

Even more recently, it's impossible not to mention the support my teammates at River have given me since my injury through messages, hugs, and a even huge banner held before the first match I had to miss. I know I can count on them through the whole rehabilitation process until I'm back on the field. They're my millonaria sisters ("millonario" is a nickname for players and fans of River).

It's moments like these which come to my mind when I think about soccer, even more so than images of games won or lost, than the fleeting feelings of frustration or joy, than memories of innumerable training sessions and matches. Friendships are the essence of soccer, and I thank God for having given me the opportunity to meet and learn from so many amazing people through this beautiful game.

Missing my teammates, can't wait to celebrate with them on the field again soon! (photo credit: Guillermo Larroquette)

It's a post-op life for me... Two weeks out from ACL surgery (Week 1)

Slight preamble: in the next posts, I will be talking quite a bit about my recovery process from ACL surgery, but I will also try to reflect some about other aspects of life since, thank God, life does not revolve around our physical struggles.

As of two weeks ago, I can say I'm an official member of an elite club I never wished to join, the "Jock Joint Surgery Club", (yes I just made that up, which explains why the name's not particularly clever...).

Thankfully, week two has been nothing like week one... My friends who had been through the same operation and rehab warned me about the highs and the lows of the whole process. One moment you're flying high—not from the painkillers (an alternating combination of narcotics and ibuprofen)—and the next you hit rock bottom. I just hadn't expected to feel all those emotions during the first week of post-op.

Day 1, while I was conscious at least, I felt great, thankful to be out of surgery, thankful for a successful procedure, thankful for the amazing care I received from all the medical staff at the Texas Institute for Surgery. After returning from the hospital, I was still under the power of the anesthesia and spent most of the day sleeping. If it hadn't been for my mother waking me up every hour and a half or so to do the exercises which had been prescribed by the physical therapist at the clinic, I would have slept all day and probably all night.

Speaking of my parents, I cannot thank them enough for how they took care of me when I was unable to care for myself, bringing me food, water, and making sure I took my medications at the right times. They made sure I followed the doctor and the PT's instructions regarding the use of a couple interesting post-op machines, the ice-machine, which I had to use constantly, and the continuous passive motion (CPM) machine, which I had to have on for a total of 8 hours a day, though I had a love-hate relationship with each, but mainly love with the ice... My parents, however, didn't love the ice machine as much as I did since every four hours or so they had to change the ice in order to ensure that the water which flowed into my ice pack around my knee was cold enough to actually make a difference, which included waking up every night around 4 a.m. not only to add more ice but also to release me from the CPM machine and give me more meds. (Needless to say, both my parents and I were thrilled to return the machines to the clinic once the first week of post-op was over).

Day 2 and day 3 I was slightly more active. Though I still spent most of the day in bed with my leg elevated, I was able to do more exercises and also could notice progress in my quadricep strength, extension, and flexion—granted, I followed the PT's instructions "to a T" and tried to do as many sessions of my exercises as possible throughout the day, which included straight leg raises (SLRs, quad tightening to improve extension and activate my quadricep muscles, ankle pumps for increasing blood flow through my lower extremities to prevent clotting, and heel slides to work on flexion).

I was very blessed to have had very little post-op pain, only during the afternoon on day 2 did the pain become more than a dull throb and only lasted about a half hour. The downside to the pain management medications was the constant fight with grogginess and the desire to sleep in the moments I was not doing my exercises. That tendency to doze off was highly frustrating as I'm not a huge fan of napping and had been hoping to use the down-time in order to catch up on some reading. Let's just say that in the first 3 days post op I only made it 20 pages in to Tolstoi's War and Peace, which, if I hope to finish the great novel before I reach middle age, is not a reasonable pace. (I'm happy to report that after last week my reading speed increased significantly and am now about 300 pages through Tolstoi's masterpiece, though I'm still struggling to keep all the princesses, princes, captains, counts, countesses, and other characters straight...)

My first post-op week would not have been complete without a few mental breakdowns, which should be interpreted as depression accompanied by a river, or maybe more like a stream, of tears. After being so accustomed to independence and high activity levels, spending a week in bed completely reliant upon one's parents does not come without its frustrations. Walking around on crutches, verrryyyy slowlyyyy, transitioning to try to learn to walk normally again, the occasional twinge of extreme pain as one tries to move too quickly. At one point, I thought I had pulled my hamstring when I almost tripped on a chair, had to catch myself with my bad leg, and felt a nice little pop in the back side of my thigh. Looking back, it was probably more like the feeling the doctor had warned me about before surgery regarding a sharp pain in the hamstring which is nothing to be worried about as it is mainly the muscles trying to heal themselves around some of the post-op scarring, or something to that effect (since they used a hamstring graft).

My lowest moment actually came on the stationary bike around day 7, which, looking back, actually seems quite overdramatic and slightly comical. The frustration all started when I was trying to get on the bike, attempting to get the foot of my operating leg into the strap on the pedal, unable to control and bend my leg. Once I somehow managed to accommodate my foot, I began to try to pedal and was incapable of doing a complete revolution, something I never imagined I would go through. As I sat there, rocking the pedals back and forth, back and forth, reaching one extreme point of flexion and going back to the other, I began to cry, cursing everything that had happened, questioning why I had to get injured, why I had to be so far from my boyfriend for so long, why the dumb rehab process had to be so long... Luckily, no one walked in during my breakdown, and I was able to recover slightly before running into any family members (I say running figuratively, obviously, as I will not be allowed to run until 3 months after surgery). I am happy to report first that my feelings of uselessness and frustration have subsided since that moment and second that as of day 12, I have been able to do complete revolutions on the bike, both forwards and backwards.

I won't bore you with the details of the rest of week 1 as each day was fairly similar to the one preceding it, with only slight increases in activity and improvements in my knee's mobility. Week 2 was much better as I had my first follow-up with the doctor, who was very pleased with my progress as far as my extension and flexion were concerned (according to the PT, week 1 is essential for regaining complete extension, more important even than flexion which can be improved later on, but if the patient does not achieve complete extension in this period, it is very likely he will never be able to completely straighten his knee again and may even require a second surgery) and had my first two in-clinic physical therapy sessions.

Since this post is quickly becoming very long, I will leave details regarding week 2 for another post and end with some photos... Also, if you've been through ACL surgery and rehab, I'd love to hear about your experiences...

Right outside the clinic, not-so-bright but very early, I was the first patient of the day at 5:45 a.m.

Waiting to be anesthetized even though I'm so tired I already look drugged...

Post-op chillin' with the CPM and ice-machines

Not sure if I knew where I was when this photo was taken...

Hanging out with my buddy Charlie after surgery

Working on flexion with heel slides on day 3 (happy to report that I am already past 90 degrees)

CPMing, Mate-ing, and trying to read War and Peace

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IMAGES ARE SLIGHTLY GRAPHIC...

Changing my dressing for the first time after surgery, since then all the stitches have been removed, except the ones from the longer incision which will dissolve eventually. (got some nice swelling going on there...)

Day 5 post-op, even more swollen and got some nice bruising going on in the shin area.

"Mi Buenos Aires Querido", homesick in Dallas

Sometimes the blank page is scary. It sits there staring back at you, challenging you to fill it with your words and thoughts, but nothing comes. Maybe in this age of computers and smartphones and tablets the blank page has gotten stronger, brighter, more powerful, or maybe I'm just suffering from a mild case of writers' block and am trying to find something concrete to blame. It's not that I have nothing on my mind, quite to the contrary, I can't stop thinking, reflecting, brewing, stewing, pondering, wondering, thundering (wait, that doesn't quite work...) about life, love, family, friends, jobs, soccer, health, surgery, loneliness, purpose, lack of purpose, wealth, poverty, joy, sadness, but my problem is how the heck do I write it all down? Or should I even write it down?

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!!!!

Brasil decime qué se siente... Argentina returns to the World Cup final

The streets are silent. Not even the occasional bus speeding past the apartment interrupts the vacuum of sound. The only cars on the street have been parked long before in anticipation. It feels like Sunday afternoon at the end of a holiday weekend, except it's Wednesday evening. For almost 3 solid hours, the silence would persist, only once was a half-hearted shout for goal heard which was subsequently quenched by an offsides whistle. The entire nation's attention was held captive, mostly by choice, by Argentina taking on the Netherlands in the World Cup semi-final in the neighboring country of Brazil (the term "neighbor" is not to be mistaken for friend, however, which, if ever in doubt, was clearly evidenced by the 7 shouts for goal which echoed throughout Buenos Aires during Brazil's own semi-final match, or rather fiasco, against European-powerhouse Germany).

For 3 hours, international conflicts, financial instability (25% inflation and falling national reserves), unreasonably high crime rates, family issues, health problems (ACL tears and upcoming surgeries...), opposing ideologies, any non-fútbol related concerns were put on hold, which is not to say there were no arguments or shouts of frustration or joy during the game, as in any major sporting event, it was quite to the contrary...

"Sabella! What the heck are you doing? You're seriously making a double substitution right now? And you're taking off the two guys who were just involved in our only goal scoring opportunity in the last 20 minutes? He actually wants us to lose. Oh, and now you're putting on a guy who's in the twilight years of his career? Great, just great..."

"Calm down, the guy knows what he's doing. He's the national team coach for a reason, isn't he?"

"Of course he's there for a reason. The same reason anybody gets to be anywhere in AFA. He's friends with the rest of the football mafia-types."

"Just shut up and enjoy the game! We can still win this! Even though the Dutch are looking a bit more dangerous than us right now..."

"Penalties? Are you kidding me? My heart can't handle this anymore!" (Which was true for the 2 Argentine men who died from cardiac arrest while watching the match)

Some prayed quietly to themselves, some crossed themselves incessantly, others turned the other direction or covered their eyes while peeking through their fingers, but everybody went silent as the first Dutch player stepped forward to take the first kick. All of a sudden even the Argentine goalkeeper's (Sergio "Chiquito" Romero) harshest critics went silent and began to cheer him on in their hearts then out loud and uncontrollably after he made the brilliant save on the Dutch center-back's poorly taken penalty attempt. Screams and shouts of joy echoed against the walls of the apartment buildings lining the streets of Buenos Aires, but as Argentina's star, hope, "Messi"as, walked from half-field to the penalty spot, silence once again reigned supreme and each person resumed what they had been doing before the first kick. Despite the Dutch Ken-doll goalkeeper's attempts to intimidate little Lio, he took his penalty decisively, sending the young blond diving in the wrong direction. The celebrations resumed where they had left off after Romero's save until the next Dutch player prepared to take his shot, and so forth until Argentina's Maxi Rodriguez scored Argentina's fourth and decisive penalty sending the "Albiceleste" to the World Cup finals for the first time in 24 years, since Maradona had led the team to the ultimate stage in Italy only to lose to the same rival this 2014 team will have to overcome on Sunday.

I'm getting ahead of myself though, nobody in Argentina was even thinking about Sunday's final on Wednesday night. As the rest of the Argentine team sprinted toward Romero and Maxi Rodriguez to celebrate the win, all of Buenos Aires headed to its windows and balconies to do the same, singing and yelling and cheering. Within minutes the streets began to repopulate as cars and pedestrians alike made their way toward different meeting points in the city, the Plaza de la República, the Plaza de Mayo, and other important intersections. In a chorus of honking horns and hoarsely screamed songs, the country joined together in celebration. My parents, my sister, and I couldn't help but join in. We sang along as well as we could, making up the parts of the songs we didn't know and screaming along with the parts we did know, which as the night went along became more extensive. Flags and jerseys waved and swirled overhead, arms flailed, guys and girls alike ran arm in arm (some even skipped along) while cheering and singing, it was the closest I've even been to witnessing so much joy together. All the main avenues of the city were blocked off to automobile traffic and were turned into pedestrian walkways. For the first time ever, the chaos of cars and people didn't lead to cursing and fighting. When pedestrians would cut in front of slowly moving cars, instead of being insulted and threatened as would happen in normal circumstances, the drivers would respond by honking the horn in tune with whatever song the crowd was singing at the time, and the passengers would join in with the cheers while hanging out of the windows and out of the sunroof. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen.

We finally made our way along with the crowd to the Obelisco where already thousands of people had gathered. We stayed for a little while to enjoy the celebrations, but after a little while decided to head back home before things got too rowdy (my injured knee would have made it difficult to run in case a fight or another sort of disturbance were to break out...). As we walked back, the crowds kept coming, an eternal parade of bliss made up babies in strollers, children on shoulders, teens and young adults, middle-aged men and women, and even elderly folks from all different social backgrounds joined together, if just for a couple hours, to relish in the excitement of Argentina's return to the World Cup finals.

(In an upcoming post I'll talk a little bit about why the World Cup and soccer can inspire such a celebration in Argentina)

An unexpected, untimely, and undesired end to my season: ACLs, MCLs, and MRIs, oh my!

I hate to start a blog with a vague platitude which could be interpreted as empty and shallow, but in this case I feel as though this one truly does apply to my situation. (Plus, it's not an easy topic to blog about). Life is full of unexpected twists and turns, and, unfortunately, mine took an unpleasant one recently, about two weeks ago if I'm to be more precise. I also do not want to be super dramatic because I recognize that what I'm going through is not the end of the world and is merely an unfortunate part of playing a high-impact sport, but it is certainly a situation I had until now been able to, and had always hoped to, avoid.

Throughout my playing career I have seen countless teammates experience the same injury, but no two recoveries have been the same. Some came back stronger than before, others came back but took longer to regain their playing rhythm, others came back only to be injured yet again, and still others never even managed to come back. I obviously hope to be among the first group, a hope which will have to be accompanied by a disciplined rehab process.

I suppose before I go into too much more detail about the recovery, I should probably just come out and say what my injury actually is, if you have not already guessed. If you want another hint—especially if you follow international soccer—, it's the same injury that kept Radamel Falcao, Theo Walcott, and Victor Valdes out of the World Cup in Brazil. It's an injury which requires surgery and a minimum of 6 months rehabilitation before being cleared to compete again. Part of my resistance to directly state what happened is due to the resistance to admit and accept what happened to me, but our team psychologist (porteños love psychologists, which I will probably have to elaborate upon in another post) told me that acceptance is the first step towards a positive recovery. Well, here goes... In our game against Estudiantes de La Plata on June 8th, I tore my anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) and medial collateral ligament (MCL) in my left knee during an Estudiantes corner kick with only 15 minutes or so remaining in the second half and with River winning 3-0.

I don't know what really happened. I think I just landed wrong, and when I tried to change directions to react to a rebound, I felt my knee collapse inwards and heard something pop. Honestly, I only vaguely remember what happened before the injury, and then, with perfect clarity, I can see myself lying on the ground inside the goal crying like I've never cried before, not so much because of the pain, but because in that moment my brain started to run at 100 miles per hour. First I thought about missing the rest of the game, then about missing the rest of the season, then about missing the Copa Libertadores, then about losing the opportunity to play with the national team, and finally about the injury possibly being the end of my playing career. It felt almost as though it had happened to somebody else, almost like those nightmares in which you watch yourself suffer your worst fears, not in first person but instead from a distance, helpless and unable to do anything but stand back and be a spectator to your own pain. (Slightly overdramatic perhaps, but in that moment, it felt as though my world was coming crashing down, all the hard work and preparation invested during this season and the previous seasons were rendered useless in a matter of seconds.)

Some of my teammates and some people who watched the match thought someone pushed me when I jumped. It was a mess in the box and that team is known for taking cheap shots. My center back heard another teammate say that an Estudiantes player had hit me, and she completely lost it—or so I'm told, I didn't even know she had received a yellow card after that play—, jumping up to yell at the referee and push a few Estudiantes players around. Either way, whether someone pushed me or I fell on my own, I was injured, and no looking back on how it happened was going to change that.

When the team doctor and trainer ran over to me, it took a while for them to calm me down, I only stopped bawling after they each did the initial ACL test, and both said it was negative and the only ligament which appeared to be injured was the MCL, which only requires about 2 months of non-surgical recovery and rehabilitation. To be safe, however, the doctor ordered an X-Ray (for any potential bone damage) and an MRI (to see the ligaments) of my knee for the next night to truly be able to diagnose the injury. Before my MRI, one of the orthopedists at River saw me and also did some physical tests of my knee, and he came up with the same preliminary diagnosis as the team doc and the team trainer, a sprain or partial tear of the MCL. Despite the confidence with which the medical team assured me that I had most likely only damaged the MCL, I couldn't help but consider the possibility that I had also torn my ACL after hearing so many stories of what my teammates felt when they had torn theirs.

The next afternoon, my fears were confirmed. The team doctor called me and informed me that the MRI report showed I had in fact torn both my MCL and my ACL (could I use more acronyms??). Luckily, I was with two friends who were able to confort me when I involuntarily began to cry yet again, not quite as bad as right after the injury but possibly in a more embarrassing environment, the cafeteria at my university.  They helped me regain my composure in time to go to class, but it was still nearly impossible for me to concentrate on what the professor was saying as my brain was whirring once again at the speed of light, or so I'd like to think, considering all possible outcomes to my situation. Add to my concerns the constant vibration of my phone as concerned friends, teammates, and coaches sent me consoling messages, and you can understand why my page of notes for that 3 hour class was almost empty except for a few unintelligible lines.

The official team announcement regarding my injury was made during our weekly meeting with the club psychologist. Surprisingly, no tears were shed. Our team goal for the season is and has always been to win the league and classify for the Copa Libertadores, the South American version of the UEFA Champions League. Already we've had to deal with multiple obstacles, our roster has changed significantly since the beginning of the season, we have to fight daily with the mens' teams for the right to use the fields at the club, weekend after weekend of suspended games due to weather and holidays, but after each challenge we've grown stronger as a team, more united and more driven to accomplish our goal.

Sometimes I feel like I'm in a typical American, feel-good, inspirational sports film. Here come the underdogs, year after year coming in second or third, always falling short of the ultimate prize to their main rivals (Boca), but not this year, this year is going to be the one. Everything is coming together to make it happen; despite minor setbacks along the way, all the pieces appear to be falling into place, but then, when everything seems right, something devastating happens, a major injury to a player in a position where the only back-up has not played competitively for over a year and a half. Can the team overcome this seemingly impossible obstacle? My team's situation has all the makings for a great movie, and I know my team has the potential and the ability to achieve a glorious ending, but I wish my role would have been a different one or our obstacle could have been more like an anonymous enemy trying to sabotage our season... Nevertheless, the situation is what it is, and now I have to start the long road to recovery, taking it one day at a time.

Thankfully, I am blessed to be surrounded by a community of friends, family, and teammates who will help me along the way. My team made that clear before our game on Friday, holding up a banner which said: "Everyday is a new beginning. You are not alone. We love you Gaby!" Needless to say, in my current state as a "glass case of emotion", when I saw the banner, I began to sob tears of joy and sadness at the same time, thankful for the sign of support which I know is more than words.

So, here's to River Plate Women's Soccer and to the growth which comes along with facing the challenges life throws in our path.

A brief word of thanks and encouragement to old, new, and future dads

Due to present circumstances, on which I will elaborate in an upcoming post, this post will be a rather short, but I hope sweet, reflection on fatherhood.

As this is the second straight Father's Day I am spending away from my father, my thoughts might be slightly more nostalgic or romanticized than normal, but the praise I give my dad is fully deserved. Being thousands of miles away from my family allows me to step back a little and realize how blessed I am to have such loving parents. The distance certainly doesn't ease the pain of missing them especially in the difficult moments when the easiest way to react is to let your dad wrap you in a big bear hug and reassure you that everything is going to turn out fine, but I can rest in the knowledge that despite the fact that we are separated by an 11-hour plane ride, my dad (don't worry, mom, I know you love me too!) loves me more than I can imagine and desires the very best for my life, which is why he (and my mom) was willing to let me go so far away to pursue my dreams.

I'm trying to imagine my dad not as a dad, but it's impossible. Being a dad is part of his DNA. It's almost as though when he took on the role of father, all his best qualities were able to reveal themselves to the fullest—love, patience, kindness, service, selflessness, wisdom, honesty. Obviously, I know that's not the case; the transition to fatherhood was neither automatic nor easy. My father was not born a father, the responsibility is not a simple undertaking nor was it a position which comes with a handbook and training. Fatherhood is not a job which always produces tangible rewards; years and years of investment of time, money, and effort can go by without any returns or clear recognition. However, I want to encourage the fathers reading this to strive on, to be an example of what true selfless love is, not just to their children and to their wives but also to the other men in their community; to fight against the temptation of taking the easy way out, the path of least resistance; to lead their family mercifully yet justly because while the rewards may not be visible immediately, when the harvest comes, all the toil put in to the raising of their children will be evident for generations to come.

Fatherhood is an enormous responsibility, but, done right, it is a truly beautiful manifestation of unconditional love and leadership.

One is not just born a mother... An ode to mothers everywhere—past, present, and future

[This post is dedicated to my (brave) friends who are celebrating their first Mother's Day from the other 'hood: motherhood]

Motherhood is a difficult topic to reflect upon at this moment, lately it's been a rather sensitive subject and something which has been crossing my mind more frequently than ever before. For most of my life, up until the last few years, I had been able to admire mothers all around me, my own mother, my friends' mothers, teachers, professors, church leaders, etc, relishing their loving guidance and sacrifice which just seemed to flow naturally. It never occurred to me that at one point, these women had been young single ladies just like me, trying to figure out their careers, scoping out potential boyfriend candidates, going out with friends, and just learning to survive on their own. 

Recently, however, I've become more aware of the fact that these women—my mother included— were not always mothers (I know, crazy right?), even though I had always known them in that role. This realization has been brought about by a combination of factors, hormones probably being one such factor but not a principal contributor. In the last year or two, various childhood, high school, and college friends have become, or are in the process of becoming, mothers. These are friends with whom I used to wonder and speculate about who we would marry, what our future children would be like, and other such "grown-up" plans but always as events which were far off, intangible, almost as fantastic as hoping to get into Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (I apologize if I have just crushed the hopes and dreams of some young reader still waiting for his/her acceptance letter...).

Now, those daydreams are becoming reality, I no longer have to imagine what my best friend from high school's baby will look like because he's already here, as of about a month ago. It's not at all that I'm scared for my friends as they take on their new roles as mothers; I think I'm scared that soon I'm going to be in a similar situation, maybe not within the next few years but, even so, motherhood is much closer than it was in high school or even college. What will the transition be like? Will my future husband and I know when we're ready to be parents?

I think the scariest thing of all is the responsibility which comes with motherhood: the task of not just taking care of a baby, then a toddler, then a child, and so forth, but the realization that, as a mother, you have the responsibility of raising a human being, teaching your child how to live, guiding him until he is ready to live independently and begin his own career and family, leaving his own footprint on this world, for good or for bad, and while a mother can neither predict nor control who her child will become, she has an essential role in the entire process.

Add to all those concerns society's message that children are not blessings but actually burdens, weights which anchor us down, holding us back from achieving our career and life goals, from living life to the fullest, enjoying everything this world has to offer. Sometimes I even start to believe that lie as I walk around Buenos Aires and see the tired faces of countless mothers pushing one child in a  stroller while yelling after her other child who is running ahead along the sidewalk, but when I least expect it, God reveals a glimpse of true beauty...

A toddler running, or, rather, teetering, towards her mother with her arms reached high over her head, a smile too big for her little face which brightens up the mood of everyone within a fifteen meter radius, as her mother sweeps her up into a loving embrace.

A fourteen-year-old girl cries as her middle-aged mother hugs her, caressing her hair, reassuring her that she is beautiful and loved, and will always be loved, no matter what life may throw in her direction.

A twenty-three-year-old young lady far from home, confused about which career path to take, worried about how to grow up, shares all her concerns, her hopes, her dreams with her mother via a video call, only to hear her mother tell her she loves her more than she could ever imagine and will always be there to support her and listen.

Okay, maybe the last example was a bit close to home, but that's when I realize the relationship between a parent and child is something so unique, so special, so complex that trying to wrap your head around it is just as futile as trying to grasp the depth, width, and height of God's love for us. There is certainly a reason God chose to use the image of a Father and child to illustrate His relationship with us through Christ. 

I have been blessed with a mother who has exemplified true love, guidance, and sacrifice for her children in every possible way. She and my father have made not only a wonderful parenting team but also have been a reflection of a Godly, loving, and committed marriage relationship, and I could not be more thankful for them. I pray that as my friends and I head into this next stage of life (if it's something we are called to do), we too would be able to reflect Christ's love in our marriages and in our relationships with our children.

To all the mothers and soon-to-be mothers reading this, I want to encourage you and wish you a happy Mother's Day. Thanks for all the sacrifices you make and for showing us what it means to love without expecting anything in return, to love completely selflessly, to be a bit of Heaven on earth.

A peace only found on Sundays

Sundays are the best days in Buenos Aires (a declaration I may have already made in a previous post, but I'd like to reaffirm the idea), especially Sundays during a long weekend. Near silence replaces the typical honking horns, car alarms, police and ambulance sirens, truck and bus engines, and the general bustle of the city during the week as the city's residents, the porteños, self-loved but almost unanimously hated throughout the rest of the country, hide away in their apartments and houses and spend the day just being lazy and enjoying time with family while the most wealthy flee to their weekend homes.

Even along the commercialized major avenues, silence reigns. Almost everything is closed, the only stores which open regularly on Sundays, except in the shopping malls, are the supermarkets, the "chinos," (I know it sounds racist, but that's what they're called here) grocery stores owned by East Asians, and the "kioskos," which are essentially tiny convenience stores found on nearly every block throughout the entire city. The same sidewalks which during the week are so packed that it is nearly impossible to walk without bumping into somebody, especially if one is in a hurry, on Sundays are almost completely deserted and one can ramble along at one's own pace without worrying about upsetting a horde of pedestrians trying to get where they need to go.

Obviously, even on Sundays, in a major city like Buenos Aires, there are plenty of opportunities to be around crowds—soccer matches, along the river (on sunny days), and in other touristy areas—, but if one wants to enjoy the rare calm of one of South America's largest cities, Sunday is the best day to do so.

Few joys in life compare to waking up without an alarm clock on a Sunday morning to the absence of sound, silence, a rarity and a delicacy for city dwellers. The sound of an engine as a car or motorcycle passes along the street below or the low murmur of a family talking on it's way to morning mass will occasionally interrupt the otherwise complete silence, but the overall feeling of peace and quiet remains unbroken.

The peace found on Sundays is a small escape and distraction from the city, the country, and the world's problems. It's the day one can forget about issues at work, about terrible traffic and inconsistent public transport, about drug wars and rumors of wars in the East, about over-crowding and inadequate infrastructure, about corruption and inflation, and just enjoy the simple pleasures of a home-cooked pasta lunch or a barbecue, asado, with family and friends, of snuggling up on the couch alongside your family with a good book and a cup of coffee, of sitting on the living room floor with the kids and playing with building blocks or puzzles. Aren't these simple pleasures a glimpse at the essence of life? Why else go through the stresses of school, work, and taxes except to be able to enjoy time with those you love while having a place to live and food to eat? I love Sundays because they give us the peace required to rest and reflect on such things.

I'll conclude my ramblings with a quote from one of my favorite thinkers and authors, C.S. Lewis, who elaborated, much more elegantly than I, on this idea of life's simple pleasures but in the context of the simplicity of the purpose of Christianity:

"This is the whole of Christianity. There is nothing else. It is so easy to get muddled about that. It is easy to think that the Church has a lot of different objects—education, building, missions, holding services. Just as it is easy to think the State has a lot of different objects—military, political, economic, and what not. But in a way things are much simpler than that. The State exists simply to promote and to protect the ordinary happiness of human beings in this life. A husband and wife chatting over a fire, a couple of friends having a game of darts in a pub, a man reading a book in his own room or digging in his own garden— that is what the State is there for. And unless they are helping to increase and prolong and protect such moments, all the laws, parliaments, armies, courts, police, economics, etc., are simply a waste of time. In the same way, the Church exists for nothing else but to draw men into Christ, to make them little Christs. If they are not doing that, all the cathedrals, clergy, missions, sermons, even the Bible itself, are simply a waste of time. God became man for no other purpose. It is even doubtful, you know, whether the whole universe was created for any other purpose." (from Mere Christianity)