Prosaic Protocol

Yesterday marked the two month post-op milestone for me. These last few months have been filled with a lot of emotions...a lot of highs and lows, ups and downs. I've been mentally and physically drained, enduring painful days and worrisome experiences. The two month mark, in the case of most injuries, is an important landmark. And yet I lay here, after an exhaustingly long day of classes, writing this blog post with an honest evaluation of my feelings pertaining to my current situation:

I'm bored.

It's a conclusion I began to dubiously come to sometime over the weekend, and one that has cemented itself as the truth. My physical therapy differs a bit every other day, largely dependent on how I feel and what the printout says I'm supposed to be doing. There are some days when my tricep may feel abnormally tight, and I have to adjust my exercises accordingly. And I may be on a day when I am to add an exercise to my routine, or increase the resistance weight on a particular exercise I've been doing. But as a generalization, my rehab program really doesn't change all that much.

Gone is the stiffness and the pain. I've banged my elbow on a desk and I've leaned against a wall with a stiff arm and I've pushed myself up out of bed with just my left arm, and none of it bothers me. Gone is the muscle atrophy and ligament swelling. For the most part, my arm looks completely normal outside of the Tommy John scar. It's still a bit smaller than the right arm, but that has even gradually been progressing...my muscles get stronger everyday. Gone is the torment of limited range of motion. I can extend my arm fully and touch my shoulder with no problems whatsoever. I can eat, write, wipe myself, scratch my back, drive a car, carry a backpack...with no problems whatsoever.

"Phase Two" of the protocol provided by Dr. Andrews is considered the strengthening phase, when ROM and re-injury prevention take somewhat of a backseat. Now, the main focus is getting my arm back to full health by rebuilding the strength I've lost. The arm has pretty much learned how to adapt to it's new ligament at this point, now it's just a matter of being able to use it successfully.

The strengthening phase is important, of course. Every aspect of the recovery is crucial, an equally substantial piece of the puzzle. But it is very monotonous. Every other morning I arrive at the trainer's room dressed in gym shorts and a t-shirt. I turn the TV on the wall to ESPN and grab myself a heat pack. I lay down on the bed and heat my arm for 20 minutes. Sometime during that period, the head trainer comes over and hands me my folder. The folder, and the papers inside, are the same ones I've had since my departure from the Andrews Institute two months ago. We take about five minutes to discuss any changes I am to implement for the day, and where I am in relation to the overall picture of the progress. Once the 20 minutes rolls by, I place my heat pack back into it's holder and begin my rehab.

It is difficult at times to look forward to the next day of rehab, knowing that it will most likely be just like it's previous. Sometimes I'll be in between sets of exercises and try to relate it to something talked about often: the grind of a Major League season. I try to envision my rehab...just two months in...as an entire MLB season, 162 games, a full April-September full of cross-country trips exacerbated by hitting slumps and bloated ERAs. I tell myself that it's all part of the process, I just need to continue pushing. My end success is heavily reliant on my stamina and perseverance, much like the Major Leaguers. And similarly to their season-finishing goal- playing in October- my goal is an expectation that seems lofty right now. It's as if I'm a .500 team in the middle of May, with a #2 starter on the DL and a top prospect mashing his way through Triple-A. Every win is important if a Major League team wants to make the playoffs, even those early spring games. And if I ever want to pitch again every therapy session is important, even these humdrum morning sessions.

With the dreary rehabilitation comes the differing reactions from the people surrounding me. I no longer have an incredible outpouring of support, I no longer have a sympathizing collection of acquaintances. Most people know what happened to me, and have a small idea of the after process with which the surgery comes with. But simply put, people aren't as openly compassionate after two months. And I am more than fine with that. It gets a bit old answering the questions after a while, the "what happened?" and "does it hurt?" and "when will you be able to pitch again?" type of things. I don't mind blending into the crowd at school, being just another student. The languidly ubiquitous benign compassion is a presence that is a natural change of pace.

The two month mark wasn't as glamorous of a feeling I anticipated it to be. I woke up and went to PT, did my work, and went to class. I didn't get people stopping on campus asking me how my arm was, or find myself hesitant to make contact with anything. I am just another kid now, at least in the eyes of the general public.

With respect to the rehab, well, who knows? Maybe that #2 starter will heal quickly and come back and pitch well. And maybe that minor league slugger will be called up and win Rookie of the Year. That won't be determined tomorrow, or next week, or next month. For now I just need to stay on the grind of this protocol, and recognize that there eventually will be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.