Waking up in the recovery room disoriented and drifting in and out of consciousness, I was incoherently harassing the
nurse sputtering nonsense like a bad drunk. As soon as the effects of
anesthesia were slightly alleviated, my motor skills returned to partial functioning and the surgery
center set me free. While leaving the center, for the first
time in a month and a half I was able to stand straight without any pain in my
lower back or left leg. Despite being doped to the gills, I remember the
sensation feeling like the first strip of sunlight hitting your face after a
long cold and dark storm and I knew everything would be okay.
The next two weeks, I remained on my morphine, which kept me good and loaded while healing from the
operation. With the
exception of walking laps in my condo, I was to rest as much as possible. Now
that I was without the pain that kept me immobile for weeks, I started to feel a great restlessness growing within my mind and body. The prospect of returning to
physical therapy was exciting. It was
an eventual step I would need to take for a full recovery. I had to be patient and respect the process. I couldn’t go from zero to one hundred,
no matter how bad I wanted to.
Before I could get serious about physical rehabilitation, I had to handle the inevitable discomfort that happens when you stop taking your medications, especially with
something as powerful as morphine. Dealing with the withdrawal symptoms was going to be a huge hurdle. Instead of slowly weaning myself off of
the medication, I stopped cold turkey. I knew it was going to be rough, but I just wanted to be
done with it. Nothing
could have prepared me for the emotional pitfall waiting for me on the other
side of sobriety. There is a double-edged sword to the healthcare
industry. You go to the emergency room to deal with an excruciating injury or sickness and you’re likely to walk out with a monkey on your back.
Within twenty-four hours of being off medication, I was already
feeling the effects of withdrawal; restlessness, aches in my muscles and bones
with cold sweats. As the day turned to night, I laid awake in bed staring into the blackness of the room. The restlessness prevented
me from getting any sleep. As the days went by, my insomnia was starting to wreak havoc on my
emotions with doubt, fear and feelings of inadequacy soon occupying my
momentary thoughts. This in turn added to my inability to sleep, which
became a vicious cycle. Unable to fight the symptoms any longer, all I could do
was embrace the situation, no matter how much it sucked.
I set up camp in the living room, seeking shelter in the
comforting bosom of a Netflix binging rapture. This time, my distraction
of choice would be Californication. There is nothing more uplifting than
watching fictional characters
who are so screwed up, that they remind you just how good your life is. There was no better medicine to help me
manage my brewing depression than the revolving loop of the rise and fall of
Hank Moody. Within two weeks I had made it through the worst of my
withdrawal symptoms and was able to return to work part-time. All that was left in my recovery was physical
therapy, which I started soon after my return to work.
The elapsed time between leaving and returning to work was only ten
weeks. Though it felt like a long time, it was only a fraction of a year
and a blink in the scope of one’s lifetime. Some people believe life is
nothing more than random occurrences, shit happens and there is no rhyme or
reason. Others believe every act comes with an important meaning and
purpose. I believe we create our own meaning to our life and the events
that take shape around us. For myself, this experience forced me to look
at many aspects of my life and personality.
The common denominator in my life as my drama was unfolding, was
patience. In the last year since ending my cross- country adventure,, the grind
of contemporary society’s rat race had slowly been winding me up making me very
unsettled. Life on the road taught me how to trust the process of living.
In the journey of life, if you know who you are, you learn how to find
the clues that will lead you along your path. The more I gave myself to
the process through my experience with RISE, I reassured myself that I was
doing what I was supposed to be doing. In time, I discovered how to be
patient with my process.
Sometime between the end of tour and mid March of this year, I lost
my patience and with it my peace of mind. While I know there were other
factors that lead to my back injury, I can’t help but be thankful for the
timing and the insight I gained in the loss of mobility. I earned a new
perspective and remembered what brought me peace during my time on the road.
Find your passion and work hard at it, knowing that it will take as much
patience as it will desire and good work ethic. Don’t get married to the
idea of how the end product is supposed to look like, allow it all to unfold
naturally.
Patience is a learned discipline that demands your attention and
focus. It provides the space and time to go within. I lost touch
with myself on a physical level. Obsessed with the book I have been
writing, I neglected my health, my body and other creative outlets.
Overwhelmed by my own unattainable expectations, my life became
cluttered. My injury was a massive reset button, a self-imposed time out
that presented the opportunity to check myself. As I prepare myself for
my physical and mental overhaul, I plead to myself not to forget what’s
important. When the anxiety of having to remember overcomes me, I will
simply reach to my lower back and feel the three inch scar. I feel that
will be the only reminder I will ever need.
