Integral Adversity

As the clock turns and it becomes August 25th, I am under the assumption that I should be extremely excited. After all, that marks exactly five weeks after I underwent Tommy John, and according to the protocol written for me by the physical therapists at the Andrews Institute, five weeks is the point at which I am to "discontinue arm brace." I should be jumping for joy. No longer will I have to wear the dreadfully uncomfortable piece of plastic that improperly fastens to my left arm. No longer will I have to endure the obnoxiously odd contortions my arm is forced into, nor will I have to answer but a fraction of the "what happened?" questions I've become so accustomed to. It is supposed to be a big moment in the recovery process, a huge step on the road to healing.

But it's not.

I don't want to take off the brace. I don't want to walk around my college campus, enter restaurants, engage in social events without my brace. Sure, I've been taking it off around the house...and it feels good. But there are times when my arm starts to ache, when I feel a bit worrisome about a particular environment that could be dangerous to my arm. There are situations when, simply put, I need security. The brace has allowed me to have some sort of scapegoat in the last month. Not necessarily an excuse per se, but an awareness in those surrounding me. When someone sees someone in a cast, or a sling, or on crutches, they know something is wrong. The arm brace for TJ surgery is not a common sight, and causes people to be more cautious and curious. The questions do start coming out, and do get a bit annoying. But people sure do make a conscientious effort to avoid making contact with my arm. I assure them that if they touch me anywhere but on the actual scar I will be completely fine, but they tend to still be timid. It's an interesting and unfamiliar social phenomenon for me. But when it all comes down to it, it's nice knowing that I have the security of a brace keeping my tender scar and new ulnar collateral ligament from the events that could occur around me.

So I will be able to walk to class tomorrow, bag in tow, and sit down. I will open up my notebook and take notes and participate in the lectures just as all of my classmates will. And I will do so unassumingly, with no large object protruding from my arm that causes me to be different than everyone else. And who knows, maybe it'll feel great. But rest assured that my senses will be in full motion tomorrow in fear that someone will accidentally bump into me, that I move my arm the wrong way, that I bang the inside of my elbow on something by accident.

The past few days have been rough for me in other facets of life post-surgery as well, not just with respect to the insecurities of having an exposed elbow. I moved into my new off-campus apartment on Sunday, a beautiful unit just down the hill from campus. It's a three bedroom apartment on the first floor of a three story building with a huge porch. It's surrounded by other student houses on a one way street and is truly the perfect situation for a college student. I excitedly packed my bags over the weekend and anxiously hopped in the car to make the three hour drive from my hometown to college. My dad trailed me in his car, curious to see my living quarters this year and yearning to help me organize my life before I ran off to party with my friends (I, like many college kids, tend to prioritize things differently than some people in the older generations might like). Once we arrived at the house and began the process of organizing my room, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I couldn't do anything.

I couldn't lift the desk, move the chair, lift the bag. If I tried hanging all of my shirts that need to be hung, my arm quickly grew tired and ached. If I tried to sort clothes, my arm would remind me that it couldn't move that way that quickly. As my dad feverishly moved about the room dripping sweat, I tried as best I could to help...but I couldn't even put a bottom sheet over my bed. I resorted to folding clothes and putting them in separate piles on my bed, and then having my dad take the large piles and put them in each respective drawer they belonged in.

I was completely debilitated. I watched my dad unpack everything for me for several hours, sitting on the futon massaging my arm. He grew frustrated, wishing he could have a little more help but knowing that there was literally no way I'd be physically capable to do these two-handed tasks. It was frustrating and disappointing.

Our fall season at school begins next week, and many of the players have been using the field and the batting facilities during the afternoons to prepare themselves for the oncoming practices with the coaching staff. I've accompanied my teammates to the field, introducing myself to incoming freshmen, transfers and walk-ons. Most of them recognized my name from the website last year, obviously following along with the 2011 season. We discussed the surgery, the rehab process, etc. I'd crack jokes with my fellow returning teammates, and make myself look like a fool trying to shag balls and throw them into the bucket righty. It's a good time, a relaxing socializing session with friends. I've been comfortable in those afternoons.

This morning as I drove to campus to go to the athletic trainers to have my physical therapy session, I saw a handful of my teammates in the weight room. Despite the fact that I'm able to work out my legs and my core, missing out on the opportunity to lift with my teammates struck me. I watched for a few minutes in silence as they went through their sets in the gym, sweating and gaining strength for the season. Then I walked downstairs and received my increased dumbbell from the trainer for my rehab assignment...a 3 pound dumbbell. And I struggled.

After a solid "family dinner" at the new house (a big barbecue on the porch with a bunch of people from the apartment building), I proceeded to head up to campus to complete an assignment at the library. I decided to take a detour and see what kind of activity was going on at the park downtown, taking advantage of the beautiful August day. I drove into the parking lot and spotted a game going on at the Little League field. I stopped the car and got out for a minute to watch the game, figuring procrastinating my assignment for a bit couldn't hurt me. I leaned against the fence and watched as these kids- no more than seven or eight years old- ran around the field in jerseys too big for them and bats a half a foot too long. They looked like chickens with their heads cut off...a grounder up the middle and somehow all nine position players proceed to sprint after the ball and forget to cover a base. There was a girl playing left field with a pink mitt who squatted down and picked the dandelions out of the grass for a moment before the coach yelled out to her to pay attention.

I smiled and wandered over closer to the action, nearer to the first base dugout. Suddenly a tiny young boy stepped up to the plate. He held the bat very timidly and stood much too far away from the plate. The coaches yelled out words of encouragement to him, but there was literally no way he was going to make contact with the ball.

The first pitch came in, high and loopy and slow. But, it was right down the middle. Strike one. The little boy never took the bat off his shoulder.

The second pitch came in, high and loopy and slow. It seemed a bit outside, but then again, these kids are really young. Strike two. The little boy never took the bat off his shoulder.

The third pitch came in, high and loopy and slow. The little boy lifted the bat and took a vicious rip at the ball, which was literally over his head. His eyes were most certainly closed, and his back leg flew forward like he was trying to kick a soccer ball. But somehow, he squared up perfectly. The ball bounded along the dirt, skidding through the hole between shortstop and third base. The boy clumsily ran to first base, holding his oversized helmet to his head. When he reached first base, his coach greeted him with a big high five and his teammates cheered. As the crowd of parents next to me clapped in approval, he turned around and smiled...displaying an entire row of missing teeth...and waved at his mom. She, in turn, smiled back and gave him a quick thumbs up before he spun his head back around to focus on baserunning.

I got back into the car after that at-bat and drove up to campus. Before going to the library, I stopped at the baseball field. At this point the sun was setting and it was empty. The dugout was full of empty water bottles, empty tins of chewing tobacco and a rake leaning against the bench. I grabbed a stray baseball laying on the ground and slowly walked out to the mound. I stood on top of the tarp and felt around for the rubber, and sat down on it once I found it. I held the ball in my hand for about 30 seconds and stared in at home plate. Then, I started crying. I cried and cried and cried for what seemed like an hour. I didn't care if anyone drove by or came to the field. I was alone in my own world. I was at the single place in the world that I felt most comfortable, the place where I could perform the only task I truly love performing. I'd witnessed my friends enjoying the game a few hours earlier on the same field I was on, and witnessed young children display pure love for the game just moments before on a smaller field downtown.

I had an NCAA baseball in my hand, a pristine mound below me. I had home plate lying 60 feet 6 inches away, with the black outline on the corners just screaming my name. I had the stands behind the backstop, and the advertisements on the outfield fence, and the scoreboard. I had the dugouts, the locker room, the press box. Everything was in place, everything was perfect.

And I can't throw the ball.

So I cried. I cried until the sun nearly set, until the tarp grew damp with the salty tears. I cried until I couldn't cry anymore.

Tomorrow morning I'll be in class taking notes and listening to my professor lecture. I will be brace-less, with my scar in full display. Tomorrow afternoon I will head across campus to the baseball field, where I'll continue to be there with my teammates as they work towards another successful season. Then I'll probably come home and enjoy some more social time with my roommates and continue to live out the greatness of the college life.

Who knows, maybe tomorrow night I won't have to force a smile and assure everyone my arm is feeling great. Maybe I will feel excellent and optimistic.

Or maybe I'll just cry.