Restoration and Repair - December 12, 2007

by Jeff"I think I'm going to puke."

The words barely pass my cracked lips. They're stuck together from dehydration and what feels like some dried blood.

"It'll pass. Quit fidgeting."

I can't help fidgeting. I didn't tell the doctor how much being put under anesthesia would bother me. The giving up control, being left completely helpless, it freaks me out, and while I faked my way through being prepped, it wasn't easy. My pulse thumped against my temples, my heart pounding almost audibly, I feigned ease and comfort when the nurse asked if I was all right. When I was left in the hall for a minute or two, somewhere between the preparation room and the OR, I wanted to hop off the cart, cinch my gown closed and walk right out the door. Thankfully, I stifled the urge long enough to be put under, and now, finally, the operation is behind me.

As I'm rolled down the hall the clatter around me comes into focus and the pain in my shoulder goes from dull to sharp. My gurney pops over seams in the floor and bounces hard. I suck in a quick breath through my nose and clenched teeth, as I pop over another seam and roll into the elevator. My eyelids are still heavy from the sedative and I let them fall, trying to shut out the burning and the voices of the hospital staff.

I open my eyes again just as a nurse wheels me into the recovery area. I must have dozed off in the elevator -- maybe they slipped me more painkillers or sedatives. I don't have a room to myself, just a bay that could be curtained off if anyone bothered to do it. Staff mill about and at the foot of my bed is a nurse, seated in a chair. Probably here to make sure I don't have an allergic reaction or start gnawing at my stitches like a lab monkey. Her face is buried in a book, and as I force my eyes to focus, I can make out that it's some grocery-store romance novel. The guy on the cover has long blond hair and I can't read the title, but the first word looks like it says "Passion." It's nice that I obviously have the top tier of society caring for my well being.

"Nurse. Ex...ex...excuse me...nurse." I'm aware that I sound pathetic -- like I'm really hamming it up and it embarrasses me a little. It hurts to talk and every time my lips touch, they stick and pull apart.

"Excuse me...I...I'm sorry...I need some water. And this pain. It really...I mean...I'm really hurting. Ma'am?"

"I'll get you some ice chips in a minute. The doctor gave you something for the pain earlier. I'll ask him when he gets back."

She doesn't look up from her book and turns several more pages before standing. I ease onto my left side, trying to take some pressure off my shoulder. Turns out rolling hurts.

A doctor comes by just as the nurse returns with my ice chips--some new doctor I don't recognize. He tells her to give me so many CCs of whatever and authorizes more if I'm still in pain.

"Can I get those ice chips?"

The ice chips melt across my lips and the runoff trickles down my throat. Immediately, I feel ten times better. I ask her for more and she smears another handful across my mouth before returning to her book. As I settle back into the bed my shoulders scream. I roll from side to side, trying to find an angle that doesn't hurt. Muffled cries of pain escape every time I find the wrong position.

"Whatever you gave me...it wasn't enough. This is killing me."

She doesn't acknowledge me--doesn't raise an eyebrow. If karma is just, someday she'll accidentally staple her tongue to a wall.

"I'm serious. You...you don't know what I'm going through. This hurts. BAD."

"Yeah, and it's a real pleasure sitting here listening to you moan." I can't believe she just said that, and I think maybe she doesn't either. Kinder--sweeter--she adds, "I just gave you some more. Give it a second."

"The doctor pumped your joint full of water, so they could see what was going on. Messes it up. It'll hurt less when the swelling goes down."

She checks something on the machine hooked to my bed and seconds later the pain fades. The burning is reduced to a dull presence--just enough to let me know it's there--and I finally ease comfortably into the bed--feeling like my body sinks four inches into the bedding. I'd like to see my doctor, to ask him how it went but I don't see him around and I'm not sure if I will, we never talked about it.

The last thing I remember before the surgery was the doctor telling me he was going to inject something into my IV. I asked him what it was for and he replied, rather flatly, "To put you to sleep." He hadn't even finished his sentence before the syringe emptied. I thought he was simplifying things-- that there is a multi-step process to putting me under, like lethal injection. Nope. The new liquid was cold, I could actually feel the chill travel up my arm. Seconds later I tasted copper in the back of my throat and slipped into unconsciousness.

This operation is the last thing, hopefully, that holds me back from becoming a professional MMA fighter. And it's been a long time coming. Nine months ago I was training for my first amateur fight when my sparring partner swept me at an awkward angle. I fell away from him and with my arm pinned under his bulk, the momentum dislocated my right shoulder then crushed a section of my scapula. I didn't know what happened at the time--not having medical insurance makes it hard to get a proper diagnosis.

For the next nine months I'd cycle between training hard when I could and staying out of the gym when I was in too much pain to fight.

If I was careful my shoulder would feel all right and I could fool myself into thinking I was better, but one whiffed uppercut, an armbar slightly overextended, or simply a cross with too much snap would leave me crumpled on the floor. The pain was intense. It wasn't just fighting, I would lose all functionality. No gym, hell, no turning a steering wheel for at least three weeks. All I wanted to do was train, and to have some phantom injury that wouldn't heal hanging over my head shut me down. It broke me. Crushed me.

I've always been the kind of person who could do anything if properly motivated. Any task I've ever gone out to accomplish, goal I have set, I have completed. But this busted shoulder, it took all that control and power away. After a particularly aggravating tear while sparring I sat in my car outside the gym, rain pouring down and choking back tears, I beat my good hand into the dash, cracking my windshield, all while screaming and cursing at an enemy I couldn't beat. ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS FIGHT! And the only thing holding me back was my own body, failing me. I HAD NO CONTROL OVER THE ONE THING I'M SUPPOSED TO HAVE TOTAL CONTROL OVER! It's so fucking frustrating. To be reminded of this fact every fucking month, it killed me. I did things I never imaged I would do, went down roads I previously considered non-existent, all in an effort to fix what was holding me back.

Being broken by something I couldn't fight--it was too much. After half a year of failed rehabilitation attempts I was heartbroken. It was an emotional trial, being incapacitated for so long and without an accurate diagnosis of what was wrong with me. Wonderfully, after almost a year of misery, I was able to see a specialist--one of the best in the country--the surgeon of numerous NBA and MLB players.

And now, after a year, I'm finally lying in the hospital recovering from the surgery that's supposed to fix me. My nurse gets up and wanders off without saying anything. I'm comfortable--curious when I'll be leaving. Curious when I'll be well again.

While waiting for my surgery, even though I couldn't fight or train 100%, I'd stubbornly push myself until I got hurt. I at least got a taste of fighting. But the second the doctor made the first incision it became set in stone that I would not be able to throw a punch for the next four to six months. I can't look at a set of gloves for half a year. It's going to be a hard six months.

And there is no guarantee that this will fix the damage. Six months of waiting until I even know for sure. My stomach tightens a bit, the way it sometimes does just before your eyes well up. What if it doesn't work? Where do I go from this if the surgery doesn't take? These aren't questions that I've allowed myself to ask.

I hear the soft taps of my nurse's tennis shoes and see her coming around the corner toward my bed.

"Hey," I say, for no other reason than to say it, happy for the distraction.

She fiddles with my IV for a minute then puts in the remainder of the narcotics -- whatever was left in the vial. A parting gift I guess, to smooth over our relationship. I gladly accept it.

"Thanks." I give her half a smile and I feel my bottom lip crack.

She smiles back and as she walks away, passes some paper to another nurse who's brought a wheelchair. The nurse is beaming and her happiness puts me at ease.

"You ready to go home and start healing?"

Posted by Jeff at 10:32 PM

Print Friendly · Digg it · del.icio.us · StumbleUpon · Netscape

Trackback Pings

TrackBack URL for this entry:
http://www.festeringass.com/mt/mt-tb.fcgi/1890

Comment Policy:

Anonymous comments are allowed. All anonymous comments and comments from those not registered with TypeKey are moderated. They WILL NOT appear until they are read and approved by a moderator.

It is strongly encouraged that you sign up and login with a TypeKey account. Once you do that, your comments will be immediately posted.