Six weeks was the amount of time we had for our preseason team practices before our season opener in Winter Haven, Florida. Six weeks was the amount of time I was given to finish my final term project last spring semester for my Corporate Finance class. Six weeks was the amount of time the orthopedists had originally informed me would be required to heal the torn flexor muscle before I'd be back on the mound again.
Six weeks seems to be a pretty standard timeframe that calls for some sort of change in one's life...for something to happen that alters the course of the norm. Exactly six weeks ago I had Tommy John Surgery, so I figured that something should change during my sixth week of rehab.
And boy, was I right.
This week's program consisted of several new exercises, commonly known as the Thrower's Ten program. The program can be found here:
Thrower's Ten is a fairly well known protocol that attacks the majority of the muscular system that involves throwing an object overhand. When I was first informed that I would be starting the program, I was pretty excited. I knew that this meant I could finally begin weaning myself off of the range of motion exercises and begin the strengthening phase of the rehab. From what I remembered, the strengthening phase would last for ten weeks, right up until I'd be allowed to start my throwing program.
Ten weeks?! That's more than two months. I wouldn't need that much time to get my arm back in shape. I had surgery only 42 days ago, I was exercising before then. I was determined. I spend all weekend thinking about the forthcoming Monday morning physical therapy session, yearning to show the trainers that I was way ahead of the curve and I could bang through the Thrower's Ten exercises. I was going to kill it...and be back with a glove in my hand in no time.
I arrived at the training room on Monday morning for my scheduled session and began applying heat to the arm. I didn't say much to the trainers or anyone else that was in the room. I wanted to hone in and focus myself on the task at hand. I was going to treat it like I would an outing on the mound...all business. I had to devote all my energy to making sure this workout was done properly, and to prove to the trainers I could do more than what that sheet said I could.
After heating it was time to hop up and appropriately position myself to start the first exercise of the Thrower's Ten program. The trainer fastened the exercise band to the hook on the wall and lined me up. The sheet read "1a. PNF D2 Extension." I looked at it for a minute, pondering what exactly that meant and hoping that someone could translate it for me. The trainer waited a second and calmly said "it's like taking a sword out of your pocket and turning it outwards in supination. Do three sets of 10." I was provided with a subtle demonstration, and off I went.
The band felt pretty light as I just held it there and I thought to myself "three sets of 10? This will be awesome!" So I banged through it, no problem. Then onto "PNF D2 Flexion", which was simply just a reverse of the first exercise. I banged through those too. Then onto internal and external rotations at 0 degrees, which used to be daily exercises for me before the injury. I did those too.
Then, I started sweating. My shoulder felt a tiny bit heavy. Bicep grew weak. Tricep ached just a little bit. Onto the next exercise, internal and external rotation at 90 degrees. More exercises that were so common to me during practice and pre-game I could probably do them in my sleep.
After struggling through each of those exercises, I was dripping with sweat and my arm was completely numb. Each and every movement I made ached, and it felt as though I had a 50 pound weight on the left side of my body.
The entire program took me over an hour, and I didn't even attempt exercise number six. I iced my arm down after the session was over and lumbered my way out to the car. All I could do was praise the decision that was made last year to buy a Honda Civic that is automatic and not a stick shift, because I couldn't even grip the wheel with my left hand.
And so, here begins the true mental test of Tommy John Surgery recovery. Up to this point, the misery I felt was filled with Hydrocodone and self-pity. My arm hurt and I couldn't use it for anything. But now, there's no more pain in everyday life. I have completely full range of motion. Now I don't need to focus so much on making sure my arm is safe and out of the way of contact. I don't need to stress about rolling over on it at night, or keeping the swelling around the scars down. I don't have to learn to do EVERYTHING right-handed anymore because now my left arm can actually move. The elbow feels fine...better than fine actually. The elbow feels great.
But the rest of the arm is as strong as it was when I was ten years old.
A good friend of mine that had the operation done in 2007 explained it to me this way:
"You'll start off a week doing a new set of exercises, and it feels terrible. Horribly sore, like you'll never be able to do anything with your arm ever again. It's a miserable feeling, and you fall into depression. But by the end of the week, somehow, that same set of exercises is a thousand times easier. You don't feel the stress or the agony anymore. You feel so confident that you're progressing so quickly and you are anxious to keep going.
Then the next week rolls around. Since your last exercise session felt so good, you are scheduled to move to the next step. Sometimes that's more weight, or more exercises, or more throws, or longer distance. Whatever it is, it's further along. And then on day one, the cycle starts all over again. You're miserable, sore and depressed."
He told me that's how it is, for about ten months. Every single week.
(Note: He went on to full health and proceeded to have a very successful career pitching at an ACC school)
I prepared myself for this to happen, but I didn't realize to the extent with which he was correct. The misery I felt after that first day was awful. I was so tired from physical therapy I couldn't even feel sorry for myself. I couldn't even perform my nightly ritual of looking in the mirror with a baseball glove on and slowly going through my pitching mechanics...thinking of the day I'll be able to get on the mound again. I was simply too exhausted.
Yesterday's session was predictably easier. The exercises were still a bit tough, but considerably less than they were on Monday. I can only assume that tomorrow will prove to be infinitely less difficult as well. And I can only imagine how difficult next Monday's session will be, and so on and so forth.
Of course, things could be much worse. At least there is a progression. After all, I am still right on schedule with where the protocol says I should be, regardless of how dreadful the arm feels. I could be backtracking and having some sort of vicious setback. So while there's a vast negative connotation to the majority of the events that go into the rehab process, the prognosis for the future remains good. I will pitch again.
It's been six weeks since I had Tommy John. Six weeks from now I'll have countless new experiences, innumerable ups and downs in the process. And yet even then, I'll only be a quarter of the way done with the recovery. Another six weeks from then...and I'll be short tossing a baseball, hopefully.
Eventually the six weeks will begin to fade away, and I'll find myself on the mound.
For now, those six week increments are eternities in my mind. Tomorrow morning at 10 AM I'll have another physical therapy session in the training room underneath the basketball arena at school. That is the most important thing for the future at this point in my baseball career.
Forget all the six week stuff. It's all one day at a time. Over and over and over and over and over again.
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