Nothing Causes You To Examine Your Life More Than A Ruptured Achilles Tendon At A Health Spa

Slow down people!! Or, How to have an existential crisis without meat, margaritas or intact tendons.

I have visited a health spa twice (really three times, as I’ll explain.) You know the ones that are advertised in the back of the magazine exclusively for American Express Platinum Card members — but you don’t have a platinum card? Those. Nothing beats a week of bliss that includes sunrise hikes to sleep through, massages daily thanks to a favorable exchange rate, and a robust list of exercise classes that you can peruse under a shade tree in a hammock. A week of bliss that does NOT include reliable WiFi, crushing responsibilities, algebra homework or meal planning. Heaven.

My first visit to a health spa was 20 years ago when I took my Mom as a celebration for getting and keeping a law firm job that paid well but rendered me disillusioned and zombie-like. We hiked, meditated, swam, talked and enjoyed someone else making the meals, even if they were primarily vegetarian (which we were primarily not) and without alcohol. I was excited to spend time with her in such a magical place.

For my second trip, almost two decades later, I brought my husband. Spas are not his “thing,” but he agreed to go with me for companionship and moral support after I confirmed that there was a TV in the Men’s locker room where he could watch the NFL playoffs. I had clawed my way back to the spa after saving money for two years, enduring two miserable law firm jobs and two devastating miscarriages. I began that first day feeling triumphant and hopeful. Three hours later I lay in my downy bed in my well-appointed spa bungalow crying, and less than 24 hours after that I retreated from paradise on borrowed crutches.

I should have known better — no racquet sports. Thirteen years earlier in my super lawyer/wife phase, my husband and I decided to get in shape. On our second racquetball date, I moved into position to return serve, then crumpled to the ground. My left Achilles tendon had snapped.

The Achilles tendon is known as the strongest tendon in the body — a fibrous cord that connects the muscles of one’s calf to the heel. Walking, running or jumping? Thank your Achilles tendon, calf muscles and foot working together to make it all happen. This well-choreographed dance is so harmonious and symbiotic until the abrupt acrimonious divorce when the tendon snaps. The fix? A surgeon makes a four-inch vertical incision down your calf and stitches the tendon back together like the ends of a frayed rope. What follows is months of pain, physical therapy and re-learning to walk.

With that experience more than a decade behind me, I scanned the spa’s slate of activities. I selected pickleball — otherwise known as tennis for old people. Just my speed. After some instruction, I moved into position to return serve and like my prior racquet sport experience, I crumpled to the ground. Instinctively, I turned my head to the neighboring basketball court to see who had thrown a ball at my heel. There was no one. Then the dread of recognition. I had ruptured Achilles number two — this time, my right — just hours into my much-anticipated and much-deserved spa vacation.

Two ruptures? Why? Something about lack of blood flow and stress on the tendons. Blah. Blah. Blah. I don’t really know why. But I do know that rupturing your Achilles tendon forces you to slow down and depend on others. After surgery, I couldn’t put any weight on my leg for months. This is followed by physical therapy and residual aches and pains that last, for me at least, years. You morph from unexamined independence to sitting on your 12-inch toilet “extender” for an hour crying because you can’t lift yourself up off of the toilet and none of your family can hear you over the din of the TV. You crawl on your hands and knees up the stairs to tuck your daughter into bed. Everything you need to get done is carried by loved ones in a laundry basket that follows you and your one-legged knee scooter around the house. You long for the day when you are healed and your independence returns.

That day is now. Eleven months later I’m back at the same spa — solo. The scene of the crime. I’m grateful for the warm sun on my skin, walking without pain, flip-flops, and the spa’s homemade tortillas. Grateful for the journey, the resilience I didn’t know I had, and all I’ve learned.

Now, I most enjoy the quiet parts of the spa. A secluded grotto with my journal; the sunrise; walking the labyrinth and the peace. Instead of leaping with the “gazelles” — those high-intensity workout stars — my repaired Achilles’ and I settle into a more comfortable routine of hikes, lectures, massages, watercolor classes, yoga and our favorite — low impact water aerobics. We appreciate cooking classes, fresh salsas and ruby red, slightly tart hibiscus water. We don’t walk near the pickleball courts.

I acknowledge my Achilles tendons when I step off of a curb or stand on my tiptoes to reach something on a top-shelf. They and the scars that cover them remind me to slow down, enjoy my daughter’s teenage years, the sweetness of heirloom cherry tomatoes, and the stories my husband has told me a hundred times.

My life was frenzied and broken long before I set foot on that pickleball court. My Achilles tendons ruptured from the stress of a job I didn’t like, unresolved grief, the expectations of others and living a life that I wasn’t fully invested in. Now they are repaired — the ragged ends carefully sewn back together and stronger for it — just like me.

Do you have a story about a health condition or medical procedure? One of those you tell people at parties, and everyone bursts out laughing at your misfortune? Or maybe one of those you’ve never shared with fear of being a downer? We would love to hear it! Contribute to Innards, and join the team.