[32] TOURNELLE DU SOLEIL • TORONTO, ARTISTS' PLAY • May 22 (Patreon)

The last time I heard a cracking pop like that it was my hamstring tendon getting a thumb-sized hole torn in it. The last time I heard a cracking pop like that, it was $10,000 of physiotherapy and stem cell auto-transplants and years of rehabilitation.

Quick, did it hurt?

Yeah a little.

Your pain tolerance is fucking stupid weird though, what if that hurt a LOT.

You could be in shock.

Maybe if I just keep spinning it'll go away. Maybe if I just keep spinning, it’ll sort itself out and I won’t have to stop and think about what's just happened.

Keep spinning? No.  Get off the fucking straps.

Before I can think a second thought about whether or not it's a good idea to do so, I touch both legs down to the ground, give them my full weight.

Before I can think about whether it hurts or not, I start to walk carefully across the floor. Am I going to fall over? Is this leg going to give out from under me?

I take careful steps across the grey mats, micro-focused on every tiny movement in that right leg.

Pain? No. Pain? No. Aching…? Yes. Yes. Aching. Aching … strongly.

My gaze stays fixed on the far wall. I don't speak to any of the other artists on the floor. My face is carefully neutral. Everything is fine. Everything is...

I'm pretty sure I've just exploded one of the ligaments in my knee.

How would you be walking then?

Well maybe one of the ones that laterally stabilizes you, I don't fucking know.

Shit.

I make it to the front desk. Let myself in through the half-door. Continue to the fridge. Take an ice pack out of the freezer.  Strap it tightly around my knee. Sink down to the floor, out of sight. Prop my feet up on the wall so my knee is elevated. And take out my phone.

Which ligament is that again…? Ah, yeah. LCL. Great. Cool. Yeah. Awesome.  FUCK.  

I keep reading. The tip of one index finger flicks past page after page until I find what I'm looking for. Something to stop the spinning in my head:

"Most LCL and MCL tears will heal on their own over time–"  Yes thank god, okay–  "over a period of 6 to 12 weeks."  NO.

I count the days in my calendar until I'm flying out to Brooklyn to meet up with the rest of the Cirque team, as if I don't already know exactly how many days it is. Maybe it's more than I think it is. Maybe there's an extra weekend in there. Maybe there's time to...Nope. It's next week.

I think about my choreography in the apparatus. The high heels that I have to wear. About what my left knee used to do last time I fucked it up this badly, close to 10 years ago.

Lateral stabilization issue means it’s not gonna hurt a ton; it might not even swell a ton; but my knee might click. Jam. Randomly give out from under me. Not a huge issue for aerial training, for handstand training, even for flexibility training.  Posing some major issues for what I need to do in New York 10 days from now, though.

Two small salty puddles form on the floor on either side of my head. They're making the insides of my ears wet. I hate that.

ping. Tig Fong: [You need to go get imaging immediately]

My thumbs smear out an illogical answer: [No. I just need to ice and tape it and get through this contract]

ping. Tig: [...okay...]

Me: [...]

Me: [OKAY okay yes you're right I need imaging FUCK]
Me: [I'm not going to be able to get an ultrasounds until the end of the week at the earliest though, probably.]

ping. Tig: [you need to know what's going on in there, tho]

A couple artists poke their heads over the low half-walls I'm laying next to, wondering why they can see a pair of feet sticking up above the snake plants in the planter boxes lining the top of it. Their eyes take in me lying on the floor. The icepack strapped to my knee. My glazed look.

"You good, buddy...?" comes a tentative voice.

My head flops over to one sideso I can roll an eyeball up to gaze at them. My left ear is just fully immersed in one of the small salty puddles now. Shudder.

"Did you hear that cracking sound a minute ago?" I ask pleasantly.

Slowly: "Yes..."

I gesture grandly at my knee, swaddled in its dripping, chilly compress. Their eyes widen.

"Do you...do you need anything else? Are you okay?"

"Not sure how I am yet.  Gonna just lie here a little longer and then try to evaluate that."

Murmured sympathies, promises to come back and check. The heads recede. I'm back in my floor-time world.
 
ping. Tig: [but you CAN do this contract. You might need to adapt your choreography so you're not putting weight on that leg.]

I try to walk myself through the act. That's going to be hard, if not impossible, to do.

Figure that out after. You need to figure out the doctor shit first.

My fingers shake as I tap through my phone to pull up the number.

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Your next instalment of Tournelle du Soleil arrives tomorrow at 7am EST / 1pm CEST!

Until then, stay strange and wonderful - XO, ess