I arrived back in North Carolina last night. I did not intend on such a quick turn around, but honestly I’m okay with it. When I left Rabinal and spent the night in Leon, all I wanted was to go home and be around the things and people that brought me comfort. Then I took the bus to Merida and got an apartment for a night. A nice warm space paired with the fancy seafood dinner I took myself out to and a solid nights sleep did wonders for me. I woke up yesterday morning and texted a friend,
“Shit. I kind of wish I hadn’t booked a ticket back so soon. But it’s non-refundable, so back to the U S of A it is.”
At one point last week I was going to rent a Campervan in Portugal and meet up with my friend Martin from France who was surfing in Sagres, then potentially go to Amsterdam and see if I could find any relatives by maybe standing in the street holding an “I’m 75 % Dutch and I like weed” sign, but when I felt into my body, all I wanted was to go home.
Having a few days of bus rides to reflect, I realized I got a lot more out of this trip than what meets the eye.
The witchy osteopath called to check on me and my dangling pinky. I keep hearing refrains of things he said to me that mystical night in his 9th floor office above a small family grocery store in Astorga.
“You can change your life” he said more than five times.
But this was after he asked me why I walked the camino last year and if I found what I was looking for. This was after he asked me what secrets I was keeping.
Secrets? I don’t have secrets. I overshare for a living. I thought.
Should I just tell you the whole story? I should just tell you the whole story.
Let us commence.
“My girl has safely traveled the world alone for months at a time but the greatest harm has come while packing a backpack in my guest room. That’s fucked! But also, if anything is going to happen, let it be this? Please continue to update me and remember your main character energy!”- My friend Shel
So that’s how I hurt the pinky. I didn’t have time before leaving to go to urgent care (plus I secretly hoped it would straighten out - literally- by the time I got to Spain). This did not happen. Nancy took me to a pharmacy once I got there. I unwrapped my finger and stuck it in the pharmacists face while looking the other way because all things injuries make me queasy.
She told Nancy in Spanish I needed to go to the ER. We disagreed so we went to three other pharmacies looking for a splint, which we found, which we improperly put on my finger, which hurt like hell for a week but I have a high pain tolerance and the gift of dissociation, so I didn’t think much of it until I late night googled when it would be too late for finger surgery. 3 weeks after injury. I was approaching week 2.
The next day Nancy, Priscilla (massage therapist), and I all piled into the car for a little ER road trip. While Nancy walked around Astorga, Priscilla took me into the ER and THANK GOD because the little Spanish I do know would probably have gotten me a colonoscopy instead of a finger x-ray.
The doctors prognosis?
“You need surgery and don’t need to be wearing a splint. Do exercises.”
Do exercises.
That’s what he wrote on the sheet. So we left, my finger bent and dangling, me trying to give it some cardio on the way out with tears rolling down my cheeks wondering how good the drugs are for surgeries these days.
“I think we should get a second opinion” Priscilla said.
That looked like her googling something and us walking through random streets in Astorga into an office where two elderly male doctors talked loud and in Spanish to Priscilla while I asked what they said while bending my pinky back and forth (doctors orders). These guys said to splint it and go to Leon to the ER.
I called a time-out so I could regulate. Nancy took us all back to Rabinal and the lady I was housesitting for said I should call Javier, the osteopath. She said it might be hard to get in with him because he is booked until the new year. Priscilla called his secretary and got sent to voicemail, but a minute later Javier himself called back (which apparently he never does) and said he had a cancellation for that evening at 9pm.
Since my Spanish isn’t great, Priscilla came with me to translate. We sat down and I unwrapped my pinky.
“Does it hurt here?” he asked.
“No.”
“Here?”
“No.”
“Here?”
And on and on this went while he located the pain and continued to massage my pinky for the next two hours while casually interrogating my psyche.
“Why did you walk the camino?” he asked.
I didn't want to take him through my whole Martin Sheen, Amelio Estavez, will I go, won’t I go story so I said,
“I don’t know.”
And honestly, I don’t. I was searching for something but at the time I didn't know what.
“Did you find what you were looking for on the camino?” he asked.
I was a little annoyed with the questions I didn't have answers to.
So then we went on to talk about secrets, my past romantic relationships (always a joy to unpack late on a Friday evening in a room with a stranger and fluorescent lights), my family patterns, and my ancestors.
I told him that my ancestors on my father’s side were from the Netherlands. His eyes lit up. He said a bunch of things to Priscilla fast and in Spanish. My head hurt, I was thirsty and worried that Nancy would get impatient waiting in the car for me to unpack my life (Oh hey codependent tendencies. Fancy seeing you here).
“He says that your ancestors moved to states for the American dream, but left their hearts behind when they did. Part of the reason you are drawn back here is to reclaim their dreams.”
Priscilla told me earlier that her ancestors were from Spain (she is from Brazil) and the first time she got off the plane in Spain, she wept.
Would I have a similar visceral reaction if I went to The Netherlands? I wondered.
Despite that ancestral nugget, what has stuck with me the most is his refrain of “you can change your life” and his insistence that I learn how to put myself first.
“First, me. Second, me. Third, me. Fourth, me. Fifth, me” he said counting on his fingers. I imagined my grandfather shaking his head as this seemed to go against everything I learned in the church where my grandfather preached and in my family.
The unconscious refrain seemed to be:
“First, make sure everyone around you is happy, comfortable and definitely not mad at you. Do everything you can to please others even if this comes at the cost of not taking care of yourself. Second, see #1. Third. Repeat.”
As we finished our appointment, Javier splinted my finger and said to keep it on for three weeks and that I wouldn't need surgery.
Cool, so all I need to do to avoid going under the knife is change my life and learn how to love myself?
Surgery seemed like an easier route.
But somewhere between Spain and Charlotte, something about what he said clicked. I am well practiced at feeling like a victim in and of my life and powerless to change it. I tend to get easily discouraged and use evidence of how things didn't work out in the past as proof of why they won’t work in the future.
You know what this leads to?
Burnout. Illness. Fatigue. A BORING SAFE LIFE.
So what if the medicine is to stop seeing myself as a victim of my circumstances and instead as the director of my own life story?
Will this heal my finger and whatever else brought me to the Camino in the first place.
I think it’s worth finding out…
You are the creator of your own life. Whoa!!
Surgery seemed an easier route! Ha. Love this post, Megan. Your wit, your wisdom, your humor, your adaptability all shine through. To being the director, to putting ourselves first and letting go not well-working if well-meaning refrains, and to change!