Friday night I went over to Canopy for an acrobalancing workshop with Serenity and Bill, who are married former Cirque du Soliel performers. Everything was going fine; I was partnering with Lindy, and we were doing some simple balances and stunts and things. We were having a little frustration with Lindy as the base, but overall, things were OK. Then I decided I wanted to repeat a sequence with her as the flyer and perhaps pushed myself too far. I'm not sure whose fault it was. Maybe my legs were getting too tired, maybe Lindy was off-balance, but either way, Lindy ended up sitting right on top of my head, and we crumpled to the ground. I felt like my head was a Popomatic Trouble Bubble: it got punched down into my spine and everything inside bounced around.

It took about 20 minutes to start feeling the pain, but boy howdy, was it painful, and it kept getting worse. I woke up yesterday morning and really thought I might scream. I mean, it was stabbing, shooting, I-can't-sit-up-on-my-own kind of pain. By 10 a.m. yesterday, Conrad and I were in line at the urgent care clinic, waiting to be seen by a doctor. The urgent care clinic, while not a place I would choose to go to again, is great for people watching. Sitting across from us in the waiting room was the Pollyanna Sunshine family, who talked at great volumes about how happy they were. Really. Mom, Dad and Baby Daughter had some weird need to announce to one another how FUN! it all was, to be in the waiting room! and how COMFORTABLE! these chairs were, aren't they so COMFORTABLE, hon? and how LUCKY! they were to be together in this urgent care clinic! None of them looked sick or injured at all. I couldn't figure it out. I started to think they were planted there by the clinic to psych everyone up about urgent care. Then there was Sherri, a fat, quiet Piggly Wiggley employee (she was wearing her badge), who played a game on her cell phone while her son walked slow laps around the room. Of course, there had to be one meth head, who complained of "just not feeling good" when he checked in. I wanted to suggest to him that smoking lye and acetone might be part of the problem, but watching him scratch at himself like he had fleas and slurp down a 20-ounce Mountain Dew in about as many seconds, I'm not sure he would have understood.

When I finally saw a doctor (a surprisingly awesome, thorough doctor) and got x-rays, I was very relieved to hear that I didn't have any fractures. Doc said there's a slight chance I may have a disc injury, because I'm having pain down my arm, but probably not.

Even so, I have to wear this thing (for the second time this year) and although it's sort of irritating, it actually helps with the pain a great deal:

Yes, that is a blueberry syrup stain on my shirt. What of it? You try eating with this thing on.

The major consequence of this is that I can't really do very much. We were supposed to go over to Achim and Angela's house last night for dinner with them and Ken and Laura, but I slept most of the day and just didn't feel up to it. I tried to work on a painting I've got going, but it hurt too much, so I was resigned to completely passive activities. It's unbelievably frustrating to be injured like this. The weirdest thing that happened, though, is how I responded to the ordeal on Friday night after I got home from the workshop: I just broke down and absolutely bawled.

It wasn't that the pain was so bad; I can handle a lot of pain. It was just that I was so overwhelmingly frustrated about the situation. And it wasn't about who injured me; it was about who didn't.

See, noticeably absent from Friday night's workshop was Julia, my best friend. For the past four years, she's been my default partner on the ground and in the air, my closest confidante (besides Conrad). And she's leaving. Starting in a couple of weeks, she'll be doing an internship in Warm Springs, which is 3 hours away; she doesn't know if she'll be coming back for trapeze classes. It's really far. And even if she does get to come back during the fall semester sometimes, it won't last long. After she graduates from her masters program in December, she's moving. Permanently. To the west coast. Like, 3,000 miles away. She's wanted this for a long time, and I'm so happy for her, but I'm so sad for me. Jace is in New Orleans, now Julia is going to California (or Oregon)--my favorites seem to go away. I'm going to miss her so much.

I called her and told her how upset I was and we talked about it for a while. I know it will be hard on her too, but I think it is harder for the person who is being left behind. The person leaving is so busy, making preparations, planning, running around trying to get everything taken care of. But the person who stays--there's nothing to do. So I sit, unable to do anything, frustrated that my circumstances have so effectively bound me in stillness.