A Trip to the ER and A COVID Memorial

Dear Dad,

I’m not sure I want to do Taekwondo any more. On Friday night, G3 and I had our midterm. I did well on the Forms and Weapons components of the test, but during sparring I was paired up with a teenage boy. I’m nearly fifty. My body is haunted by old sports injuries and I just don’t move as well as I used to. Plus, I’ve only really been training in sparring for less than five months. Most of my training while getting my black belt was during the pandemic. First, it was virtual. Then, I got to spar a heavy bag because of the all the pandemic restrictions. It’s not the same as sparring a person, but at the time, it was better than nothing. A teenage boy, who has been sparring for many years, has many advantages over me. However, the instructors thought he would have proper control because he’s part of the teaching program and being able to control your power is something all black belts are supposed to do.

We were sparring for less than a minute when he kicked high and hard. His foot smashed against my face and knocked me to the ground. The pain in my jaw was immediate and acute. I’ve been hurt before, but the pain was more intense than anything I’ve ever felt. I stood up and pulled my helmet off, and I couldn’t get my jaw to align properly. The bottom jaw jutted out, giving me a terrible underbite, and when I tried to pull it back, a sharper surge of pain exploded in my face. Fear that the kid’s foot had done serious damage, combined with the fact that I was slightly disoriented—I was after all just kicked in the head, hard—made thinking clearly impossible. Instinct took over. I ripped my gear off. All I could think about was that I needed to get to a doctor—and fast. I needed to find out what was wrong. Why wasn’t my jaw working? I feared it might have been dislocated due to the incredible pain and the fact that I couldn’t close it properly. I announced that we were leaving because I felt the need to get medical attention right away. At that moment, I couldn’t fathom dealing with that pain all night and waiting for morning. In my moment of panic and disorientation, when I announced that we were leaving, I had forgotten that G3 wasn’t finished. His test wasn’t over. But my brain wasn’t processing properly.

In a fit of anger, G3 grabbed his gear and stormed out to the car. He and Kati were pissed at me for causing a scene. For making everyone leave. Kati said I should wait until morning and go to Urgent Care. But with the intensity of pain, I didn’t think I’d make it through the night. I insisted on going to the Emergency Room. In retrospect, it was a terrible decision. I should have stayed at the test, put ice on my jaw, and waited until morning. But at the time, I was driven by my need to know what was wrong. Why my jaw wouldn’t work. I sat in the Emergency Room for nine hours. I was up all night, pacing and trying to read. Nine hours waiting first to see a doctor. Then to get a CT Scan. Then for someone to read the results. My jaw was not dislocated. The muscles were just spasming and pulled too tightly from the injury. The doctor said my jaw would realign itself once the muscles relaxed and the injury healed. It could take a week, but in time I’d be able to chew again. She gave me a painkiller, a shot in the arm, and she sent me home.

The pain is still intense. I can only eat pureed food like a baby. And now I’ll have a lovely bill from the hospital to pay. Taekwondo was supposed to be fun. It wasn’t supposed to cause me this much pain, a trip to the hospital, and a hospital bill all because I showed up to take a test. If I had gotten injured during a tournament it would have been different. Circumstances surrounding tournaments are not the same—there are medals and points at stake. Plus, I’m fighting women close enough to my age that the disparity between skill levels—even if they are better than me—isn’t that great. I don’t want to put myself in a position where this can happen again. 

G3’s who is still mad at me for embarrassing him and making him leave early—even though I made sure that he can complete his test on Tuesday—said, “You’re in a sport where people kick each other. What did you expect?” To a degree is he correct. But I didn’t think I’d be in a position where I’d have to spar against a teenage kid who would hit me with such force. On prior occasions, I have sparred other teenage boys who have always been gentle with me. They push me, but they recognize I’m an old lady compared to them, and they don’t hurt me. I don’t need to be in a position where a kid—perhaps, accidentally—indirectly points out that I’m not as fast as I used to be or that my reflexes aren’t as sharp. I don’t need him so clearly pointing out that with youth on his side he can easily overpower me and knock me down. Like I said, Taekwondo was supposed to be fun. Not humiliating or painful. And it’s unfortunate, because I was enjoying it. It gave me something fun to do, something to look forward to in a life that’s not exactly worked out as I had hoped. Besides, I now have an ER bill to pay. Tuition for classes seems like a waste of money. And if I don’t go back, I don’t have to worry about another nasty forceful kick to the head.

I got home at 6:30 on Saturday morning, and got a couple of hours of sleep before I had to go with G3 to take the first part of his collar test for Taekwondo. He’s tracking to be an instructor at some point in the future, and different collars are indicative of where a student is on the path to becoming a full time instructor. He had to demonstrate that he could do nine different color belt forms. He did beautifully, but he’s always had a natural knack and talent for forms. You would be proud of him. He will take the second part of his test—the teaching part—on Tuesday.

After his test, I drove to New York to visit Mom. G3 couldn’t come because he had Taekwondo classes again today and I didn’t want him to miss them. Mom has been down lately, and I knew she was looking forward to my visit. Even though my jaw was killing me, and I got little sleep, I still wanted to see her. Since she knew I couldn’t chew—all I had for breakfast was a heaping teaspoon of peanut butter—she made me bean soup for dinner and then pureed it for me. It’s one of my favorite soups and it tastes almost as good pureed as it does normally. Shortly after we ate, I crashed, falling into a deep sleep on the couch.

For Christians, Lent is this time of the year. When I think of my childhood, growing up Catholic, I remember the rituals that surround this season. The Stations of the Cross specifically stand out. The walk around the church, pausing at each station to relive Jesus’s path to his execution. I haven’t done the Stations of the Cross in years, but I am reminded of them every year now as I walk my own COVID stations which last thirty days, starting March 16 and ending April 14. For the last three years, each day during this time I pause to remember the early days of the pandemic, where I was, what I was doing, and how you were dying. My stations end on April 14, the day you died, but today March 26th is a significant station. It’s the day I first knew you were dreadfully ill the day, I first suspected COVID might kill you. The day I broke down because I tried desperately to get you help, but ran into one dead end after another. Tomorrow is the second worst station—April 14, of course, is the worst. Tomorrow, March 27, is the day Mom called me at 4:30 in the morning asking me to please come to New York to take you to the hospital. It was the very last time I ever saw you. I didn’t give you a hug. I didn’t tell you that I loved you. And every year I relive the regret, wishing I could have the day back so I could do things differently. If I could take the day back, I would get out of the car and wrap my arms around you. But I didn’t know that as I watched you walk into the hospital, I was watching you walk to your death.

It seemed appropriate, so close to the anniversary of the last day I ever saw you, that I walked up to Elmhurst to visit the “Missing Them” COVID Memorial. Your picture and obituary were there, so I wanted to see it. I’m glad that The City, a local new organization, took the time and effort to memorialize the COVID victims. I’m happy that you and the others were not forgotten, but the memorial was a bit disappointing. It was a banner—with the victims arranged on a timeline, showing when they died in relation to each other—that was hung on a playground fence. It was a beautiful morning, lots of people were out. Guys were playing basketball. A group of Asians were doing Tai Chi. Some people were hanging out talking. But only one other person, aside from me, paused to pay respect to the dead. Only one person took time to see the devastating effect the Pandemic had on so many families. I cried as I read the names and looked at the pictures. I cried because I wish you were still here.

I invited mom—if she had come we would have taken the bus—but she didn’t want to go. A banner hung on a fence did not appeal to her. She wants a permanent COVID Memorial built in New York City. You and the other victims deserve no less. I agree with her. It seems it’s the least the city could do for all the residents who died. 

After I got back to Mom’s, I took her to run some errands. It’s easier for her when I can drive. She bought chocolate for Easter, the holiday I used to love, but now it just makes me sad. We don’t have you and we can’t go out to Mattituck. The day is just a reminder of how much we have lost. With her errands complete, we took a walk before I had to drive back home.

I miss you!