Adults Need Playtime, Too
by Frances Thomas
When the ER doctor asked me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, the idea that a number could even translate what was happening in my body made me want to scream. In fact I did scream, so loudly and for so long that saliva spilled from my mouth, foaming like that of a deranged animal.
“Animal” is the word my husband, who was there when I dislocated my shoulder and for the subsequent hospital ordeal, uses to describe me on that day. “Your eyes …” he will begin, shaking his head in shock at the creature I devolved into: the animal whom he’d once known as his wife. In the Before Times, I was characteristically polite and courteous; in the After Times, I was a monster. When the doctor began to cut open my shirt to assess my injury, she paused to kindly ask, “Is this sentimental?” My response, according to my husband, was guttural: “CUT! IT! OFF!” Apparently, I snarled. I don’t remember this exchange.
I wish I had a better story about how I dislocated my shoulder, because the true one is so lame: I was reaching out to hug my husband. A hug! Turns out I have something called “generalized ligamentous laxity,” which means my joints are hyper-mobile and any little movement can yank them out of place. Lucky me.
It’s been months since my injury, and I’m still perplexed by the fact that something as small—as decidedly gentle—as a hug wreaked such havoc on my body. (Did I mention it was the shoulder on my dominant side?) I’m moving slowly and ever so intentionally, even with small actions like pouring milk into coffee. This pace is frustrating, tedious, and inconvenient; it is also surprisingly profound. As I relearn how to stretch, lift, hold and hug safely, without inviting re-injury, I’m becoming acquainted with the universe of minute sensations hiding beneath my skin. And this universe is brimming with bodily pleasures: inborn portals to joy that adulthood has a tendency to slam shut. Having to slow down and take care has made me explore my physicality with a new, almost childlike, curiosity. Not until my body failed me did I see it as a playground for dilly-dallying and aimless delight. Thanks to my injury, I’m rediscovering the power of play.
I stumbled into my playground a week after my dislocation. It had been seven long days of languishing on the couch, popping muscle relaxers like candy and drowning my sorrows in Desperate Housewives. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I felt a peculiar itchiness in my limbs. It was like they were ticklish from the inside out. Lying supine on the couch, I curled my toes and shook my legs, undulating my lower half in a spasmodic sort of dance. It felt good—absurdly good. Like my limbs were floating in a warm, gentle whirlpool. And the itching sensation began to lift, which made me think it came about due to my protracted inertness. I got up and pulled out my yoga mat, hoping to lie down on it and lean into more intuitive movement. But, as I was bent over to unroll the mat, a searing spasm ricocheted through my shoulder. Dejected, I skulked back to the couch.
Soon enough, though, the itching returned. I broached the yoga mat again, this time as carefully as humanly possible. I was moving inch by inch, as if through syrup. Seconds turned to minutes without a spasm, and I began to relax. I lit a candle, dimmed the lights, and hit play on my go-to sad girl playlist: Suki Waterhouse Radio. Then, finally, I lay down on the mat.
Before moving a muscle, I took a beat to check in. That’s when I noticed that my whole body was trembling in fear. I took a big gulp of air and held it in for a few seconds, imagining the oxygen flowing straight to my shoulder and torn ligaments. I lay there just breathing for what felt like a long time, drinking air and visualizing healing. And with each breath, the trembling lessened. So did my fear.
When the trembling stopped, my body took over. All thought and language evacuated my consciousness; the synaptic rattle of my skull ground to a halt. I watched my legs rise towards the ceiling, where they hung in balletic suspension. The air was warmer up there than down on the floor; it felt plush against my calves, like a velveteen blanket. My toes began to point and curl, wiggling in suggestive flirtation with … See, now I’m intellectualizing, trying to analogize the experience as if it were like anything I could possibly pinpoint. The point is that my anatomy was moving of its own accord, just expressing itself for the simple sake of release. And the release ran like liquid life through my veins, vivifying an interior landscape I didn’t even know existed. I experienced rapture, then, that returned me to my 5-year-old self. I was playing in the backyard of my first home, digging popsicle-sticky fingers into warm dirt. My hands traveled deep into the earth, grazing worms and pebbles and scraggly white roots. Above me, a bushy blue hydrangea formed a canopy, protecting from the sun; beneath me, the soft stretch of soil made a pillow for my knees. Everything I needed was in arm’s reach. I was safe, and happy, and home.
While I daydreamed back in time to my 5-year-old self, I remained dimly aware of my 28-year-old one, injured and feeling sorry for herself in a Brooklyn apartment. When was the last time she played in the dirt? When was the last time she moved on a yoga mat without the objective of breaking a sweat? When was the last time she felt really and truly free?
I couldn’t remember, and I began to cry. Hard. The tears rushed down my cheeks and neck, leaving snotty puddles on the mat beneath me. I gazed down at my body, and for the first time in years, I felt surging, ecstatic love toward it. Thank you, I whispered. I brought my hands to my face and kissed them through my salty tears.
Lying there on my yoga mat, I came to understand the immense point of pointless movement. I felt supreme joy over the basic fact of my body, with all its aches, pains, and imperfections. I stopped resenting my injury, and I awoke to the stunning grace of all it might have to teach me.
I’d never wish the pain of a shoulder dislocation on my worst enemy, but I do recommend that all of us—grown-ups especially—get down on the floor and play.
BIO: Frances Thomas is a writer based in Brooklyn, New York, and an MFA in Nonfiction Writing candidate at Columbia University. Her work has appeared in Slate, Dazed, American Literary Review, Longridge Review, The Maine Review, and others. She writes to build safe spaces for hard conversations. You can find more of her writing at https://francesjthomas.com.