Inhabiting Your Body to Heal
Feeling emotions like bleeding of bones are crucial aspects of healing, regeneration and repair.
Do you know the feeling of inhabiting your body—of ‘at home’ in your body? The lights are on, everything is working, and you feel a web of interconnectivity infused with aliveness. Your body is responsive to rest, exercise, love-making, work, play, and art, or is happy to do nothing. You feel an inner repose while engaged with life. You trust an intuitive intelligence in your body that doesn’t live in one place yet you can track it, listen to what it wants—desires, and follow it like a voice.
It makes you feel like dancing or singing in public out loud without concern. You explore, take time off, and say ‘yes’ to things you’ve said ‘no’ to. Single like me, (almost forever)? Hell no, you’re full of piss and vinegar—you download an online dating app and imagine a passionate evening or…
In this post, I share a brief sketch of a path home to your body, the possibility of feeling alive in your body, the story of breaking my leg, how listening to my body sped up my healing process, and some pointers for inhabiting your wise body.
First a word from Dolly Parton:
I lived most of my life in the periphery of my body, disconnected, unable to attune to its intelligence—more like a passenger on a cargo train who acquiesced to the needs and wants of others. It took years to track down my body, wake up the numb parts, and learn to find comfort inside of it.
I hit many so-called ‘bottoms’—a certifiable train wreck before therapy, twelve-step recovery, recording my dreams, and story healing enabled me to occupy my body, one sensation at a time. In my ‘out of the body—dissociated—in the head’ experience, I thought I was alone. We all do. But I wasn’t and you aren’t. Everywhere the train went I saw—sleepwalking is commonplace. Some ‘experts’ call this a trauma response, unresolved trauma that acquires a habit body.
Trauma is an internal response to an external unexpected shock that is too soon, too big, or too much for our bodies to assimilate. No one T fits all. We react and heal differently on the small t to big T spectrum.
One of the core aspects of trauma, according to Dr. Gabor Maté, is the disconnection from oneself that leads to a loss of self-awareness, self-regulation, and the ability to feel and process emotions in the body. In other words—the habit of numbing and indifference—of becoming unconscious—cargo takes over.
Dream therapy steered me in a new direction—’down and in’ rather than ‘up and out.’ The study of Jungian Psychology and practicing as a body-centered therapist deepened my understanding of how we exit and/or inhabit our bodies.
That was the eighties, fast forward to…
A few years ago—I felt amazingness in my 64-year-old body. Believed Paul McCartney, ‘all doors were unlocked, you will still need me, you will still feed me—when I'm sixty-four—dat da!’
Life was flowing along just fine. I completed negotiations to extend disability services for my twin daughters and had ample support in my home to hone my healing craft. All bases were covered—I was home. Oh, that luxurious moment—centering my needs, wants, and desires. After twenty-five years of full-on single parenting and paying the bills, I thought—WOW. What does this body want? What is the next act?
The crowd cheers, “Break a leg.”
They didn’t mean it literally, but I broke my leg, my left leg. It felt like the red carpet was pulled out from under my feet. It wasn’t a carpet, it was a tandem bike accident. Like all accidents, it was unexpected and poorly timed. One of my twins and I were peddling along on our tandem bike, near the end of our scenic adventure. I turned off the bike trail onto a paved neighborhood street lined with parked cars. The street begins with a slight decline before it levels out. Our bike accelerates. I pumped the brakes to slow us down. The brakes failed—the steering locked. We sped toward a parked minivan. I slammed my left foot down to stop our descent. We came to an immediate halt a nanosecond from the van, averting a disaster that could have immobilized both of us.
The bike did not tip over, it has three wheels. Despite Abby’s mobility and vision challenges, she sprang to assist me. She knew I was injured. I held tight to the handlebars to steady myself on my right leg while my left leg shook like a rattle. I sat down before I collapsed. Fierce like a superhero, Abby lowered my shaken body to the curb. She gripped my arm and spoke, “Mom, are you okay?” Her voice seemed far away, “You okay? You okay? Mom, are you okay…?”
I mumbled. “I don’t know. We need to call for help.”
I remembered that my cell phone was in the bike basket. Abby was quick to retrieve it. With precision, she dialed Libby’s nurse, who was just a few blocks away caring for her twin sister. Lori arrived, assessed the situation, and managed to maneuver me into the front seat of her van. Abby tagged on like a trooper.
This accident probably necessitated calling 911. I paused. I have medical trauma. I chose R.I.C.E., rest, ice, compression, elevation, and homeopathic remedies before submitting to a medical terrain of strangers. It was late, I didn’t want Abby to lose sleep worrying about me. She had worked hard preparing for a dance recital the next day. Initially, the pain subsided, but swelling persisted through the night, disrupting my sleep. The next morning, I had a hematoma the size of a melon protruding from my leg. It felt dense like a fifty-pound brick, impossible to lift or move. We called an ambulance to take me to the emergency room.
Within minutes the rescue squad arrived including a fire truck. First responders were barging through our front door and crowding into our living room as if we were on fire. It seemed rather excessive and triggered a mixture of emotions—panic, laughter, dread, fear, and tears. The paramedics carried me on a stretcher into the ambulance, two of them checked my vitals and comforted me as ear-splitting sirens wailed through town to the hospital. At the emergency room, I was transferred from one gurney to another. All was going well until the paramedic holding my engorged leg accidentally dropped it, eliciting a blood-curdling scream, and a level of agony I did not know was possible. I thought I would vomit. I may have wet myself. While apologizing profusely, the attendant readjusted my leg until the attending doctor arrived at my side and offered me a strong dose of Oxycodone for pain.
I recognized this doctor. He had attended to my other twin Libby a month before when she fell off her changing table and required eight stitches. We had a wonderful experience with him. He was kind, informative, and a progressive physician. He wanted to treat Libby with Ketamine as a sedative to stitch the cut at the eyebrow. I agreed. I recall watching her lying perfectly still with a serene smile on her lips, her eyelids closed and gently fluttering as if in a blissful dream. I wanted the same but gladly welcomed anything to alleviate the searing pain in my leg.
The medication kicked in; I remained coherent while Doctor John explained the need to drain the hemoglobin from my leg. After he drew out two large syringes of blood, I fainted. Upon awakening, the swelling on my leg was significantly reduced, and I was on the way to visit the X-ray technician.
The x-ray revealed three fractures in my tibia. I couldn’t believe it—so much blood and breakage from putting my foot down to stop a bike. It felt surreal. I didn’t know that bones bled.
The process of bone bleeding, called hematoma formation, is a crucial aspect of the body’s natural healing process. Blood seeps into the injured area, forming a clot, which aids in the regeneration and repair of the fractured bone.
Understanding this intricate process reinforced my belief in the body’s innate ability to heal and fueled my exploration of alternative healing methods for my recovery.
I was prescribed pain medication and referred to an orthopedic surgeon to repair the fracture. I chose Chinese medicine herbs, Acupuncture, massage, and icing to assess the results. My birth experience with the industrial medical complex was traumatic, leaving my twins severely disabled. Any trust I had in Western medicine was shattered. Rightfully wary, I deliberated over the options. Doubts flooded my mind.
Would I be listened to? Would I be given informed consent?
My body was speaking to me with fear of the unexpected.
I calmed myself and decided to see an orthopedic surgeon. Surgery was inevitable. My leg bone pushed itself into my knee and needed to be pushed back down and secured with screws to mend.
Later that week, I arrived at the surgical clinic. The inevitable stack of paperwork awaited me, including a consent form. Among the pages was one labeled “optional.” But when I was lying on the surgery table in a hospital gown, the medical assistant and anesthesiologist insisted that I check the optional boxes. Perplexed, I reminded them that optional usually means not mandatory,
Can I ask the surgeon why this would be needed?
They promised that the surgeon would speak with me. The anesthesiologist told me it was required or I could not have the surgery.
What?
I never saw or spoke to the surgeon, or knew who else was in the surgery. Before I could say Jack Shit, I was a goner. The anesthesiologist had already begun the sedation.
The walls tightened — my heartbeat quickened yet I persisted, half-naked on the table,
I’m not comfortable with strangers, I need to know why you want them here.
My eyes darted around the room—tall strangers in suits. Heat burned in my armpits, breathing labored, nostrils flared,
Where is the surgeon? Why do you want them here?
My friend who accompanied me wasn’t allowed to be with me due to Covid restrictions. I was alone—vulnerable.
The anesthesiologist interrupted me, her patience thin,
They need to look closely to order the proper knee replacement parts.
Her words pressed on me like a sledgehammer—sweat dripped down my back.
Alarmed, I stammered,
You have the wrong person. I’m not getting a knee replacement.
But it was too late, the room became a blur—volition faded.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself covered with a sheet on the same table. A young cheerful woman stood ready to discharge me.
Everything went well. You can change into your clothes. You’re all set.
She moved briskly, helped me into a wheelchair, and rolled me to the parking lot, where my friend was waiting.
Initially, I had little to say, I struggled to find the words to express my experience. Self-doubt gnawed at me. I blamed myself for not insisting someone be with me. A trusted friend who would hold my hand, flag the requirement for informed consent and protect me from potential misconduct.
My friend asked me how it went. My arms were crossed in front of my chest, my lips pressed together, and I swore under my breath. The ugly feeling of violation oozed inside of me, why did I go? Did I make the right decision?
I could not shake the realization that to challenge anything about the procedure would pit me against a powerful medical force. Who would listen to or believe the testimony of a woman on state medical insurance without a witness?
As we drove on, shrouded with ambiguity, I knew I had to pour all of my energy into healing and imagining that, in the long run, this procedure would be beneficial.
I received a two-minute video from my online medical portal. The surgeon detailed the multiple incisions and high-tech microscopic instruments to insert two long screws into my leg. His voice never wavered,
Everything went very well.
He prescribed pain medication and crutches while I waited for a wheelchair. Physical therapy was set for twice a week and follow-up visits.
Watching the video was unsettling. I was happy I didn’t receive a knee replacement, but I wondered what occurred while I was unconscious. Despite this uncertainty, I knew that months of follow-up appointments awaited me, including stitch removal, X-rays, and monitoring my progress.
I made no effort to fill the prescriptions. My system was working hard to detox from the anesthetic. I was groggy until the Chinese herbs and homeopathic medicine cleared my mind. Soon, the swelling significantly reduced, my mood lifted, and my humor returned.
I relate the specifics of this story to demonstrate the wisdom in our bodies. I consider breaking my leg a small trauma. When we have a history of trauma, the body remembers and holds the charge of that prior experience. My reactions to what unfolded were healthy and normal. My body wanted to keep me safe.
In the long run, the procedure was beneficial. My body healed quickly. I was expected to be unable to walk without pain for a year, it took three months. The only pain I felt was my biceps screaming from lifting my weight with crutches. I enjoyed time in bed and the kindness of the people around me who took care of me. I was lucky to have help.
When the time is right, I will have the screws removed from my knee. I haven’t regained my full range of motion. The surgeon declared that I never will. We’ll see.
A Few Pointers for You When the Unexpected Happens:
• Know that your body doesn’t lie, it is your best friend. —Dr. Bessel van der Kolk. The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma.
• Like the bleeding of bones is a crucial aspect of healing, so is the feeling of emotions. Feeling seeps into the hurt or violated area, and whispers when you’re safe to feel. This repairs traumatic injuries and regenerates your emotional body.
• When you have a challenging appointment or difficult conversation, bring a trusted friend as an advocate, witness, or to hold your hand.
• Research your alternatives. I do not judge the use of pain medications, in many cases they do the trick. Read the fine print and watch for side effects. Many alternatives are available, find what works for you to feel calm—to listen to what your body needs.
I Would Love to Hear From You:
How do you track the needs and wants of your body?
Do you have a self-care program — giving your body what it wants for enjoyment?
Have you tried alternative approaches for healing — what works for your body?
Thank you for reading and receiving your dose of The Salty Crone.
with love,
Prajna O’Hara — PrajnaOhara.com
If you enjoy this publication, please consider restacking or sharing with friends.
Thank you for being here!
It is impossible to stop or even pause while reading this. Nor could I save any of it for later. Once you start, you're on a ride you can't possibly hop off. Just terrific, scary and bewildering anfd powerful, and a reader has absolute confidence that you know what you're talking about, and there' smore to come.
I couldn't agree more 👍👍👍