Monday, June 6, 2016

The Extruded State Part 2



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.

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