When I was in high school, I played the organized (thuggery) sport of field hockey.  It’s not a genteel sport for ladies, or at least it wasn’t in the Greater Boston Division One league.  Pushing, shoving, high sticking, tripping and fouling when we hoped the refs weren’t looking—if it only pushed the bounds of dirty, we pushed it.  (And had more than a few fistfights after games to prove it.)  But it was all a part of our love of the game. 

I wasn’t an all-around athlete, but I was a good defenseman—halfback, fullback, and occasional goalie as the changes in the line up dictated.  But I could drive and tackle, defend corners, pass, flick, scoop, and make penalty shots with the best.  I was blessed with a team that functioned as a team.  My offense was there, up ahead, making themselves open so I could dribble and dodge the other teams offense, and push them the ball or drive it up the sidelines to a waiting wing or center.  I had a long drive, so I also had league record number of assists for a defenseman.  I drove a ball so hard one time from just the other side of the 50 yard line that some of the opposing players jumped out of the way.  And the joy of the game well played more than made up for the laps I hated to run, the sprints I had to do.  Stickwork drills?  All over that.  Running?  Not so much.  But tackling an opposing player, stealing the ball, passing it to my wing, and having her flick it into the upper corner of the net?  All the sprints were worth it. 

Life is like field hockey in that it’s played with very little external padding.  When I played, we wore mouthpieces and shin guards.  That’s it.  No helmets, no padded glovers, no chest pads—despite the fact that concussions from balls to the head, and ruptured spleens from balls and stick-ends to the gut were a frequent occurrence.  And even with the padding, we were still open to injury.  Broken fingers, noses?  I’ve had several, some twice.  And that ball?  A larger-than-baseball-sized solid plastic ball, driven at as much as 75 mph (my hardest driving speed) by a fiberglass-reinforced oak stick of no small dimensions.  It hurts. 

In my sophomore year, I got whacked on my left shin one day intercepting a straight-for-the-goal drive from a player on the Bishop Fenwick team, and even through the shin pad, I could feel it start to sting.  The hit was so hard it didn’t even really bruise—it just became a hard, sore mass right in the center of the shin.  For weeks, it sent stinging, shooting pain up my leg, every time I ran on it.  Since the xray was negative, I learned to ignore it.  For months afterward, the lightest brush was excruciating.  So I taped a small gel pad on between my shinguard and my leg, and kept playing.  For three years, it was tender to the touch.  I learned not to touch it.  I never thought it would heal—but it did, while my attention was elsewhere.  (Only to promptly get whacked again in the same place during college field hockey tryouts—but that’s another life metaphor, for another time.)

I was reminded of this after a recent fight with my mom, who, less than three weeks after her release from the hospital for another psychotic/manic episode, accused my brother and I of trying to take control of her money and leave her in the poorhouse.  Currently, we’re not speaking, since she had the gall to tell me that I had no idea what being depressed was like. (I believe I said “I find that hard to believe, since you gave me the f-cking bipolar…nice f-cking present.  Thanks.”).  Afterward, I was angry for letting her goad me, and then angry at her for being Queen MeMeMe– but then I accepted that I’ve just got sore spots that she pokes, hard, intentionally or not.  But I was still despairing of the whole situation, until I remembered what I’d learned from my field hockey bruise– some things just take longer to heal.  Even if you think they never will, they very well might, long after you’ve learned to function, walking wounded, and have gotten on with things.  One day, the sore spot will be gone.  So for now, I am going to ignore my most recent sore spot, pad it as best I can, and trust that it’ll heal when it’s good and ready.  It’s the only thing I can do– I’ve got a life to live in the meantime.