The pertinence of the information I've received during my rehab process has changed over time. No longer do I jump in excitement at the diminutively gradual ascent that is associated with Tommy John recovery. No longer does joy overcome me when I make a progression in my program. No longer am I exhilarated after a morning of work at physical therapy in which my arm is seemingly pushed to its current physical limit. I've felt a change of heart that is suddenly transparent, yet not sudden in reality at all.
Throughout the last few months of my life, my motivation in the things that I've accomplished physically has been the next day. I always looked to the following morning of physical therapy...attempting to better myself so that the succeeding session was even more successful. And that was advantageous for me. I felt as if I was a thoroughbred racehorse who's jockey attached blinders to my eyes and my only responsibility was to sprint to the destination immediately in front of me. There were to be no excess parameters, no exuberance of distractions. I treated each week as my own personal Triple Crown: Monday- Kentucky Derby, Wednesday- Preakness Stakes, Friday- Belmont Stakes. I was driven to have a great showing at Churchill Downs so I could set myself up for Pimlico and eventually reach the pinnacle of my quest at Belmont.
And then the next week, repeat my metaphorical quest to be a human version of Secretariat...in the training room.
Today marks my 96th day post-op, and yesterday's physical therapy session gave me my first true glimpse of things to come. When I walked up the stairs and out the door of the arena, I paused at my car door and stretched my arms out to the side.
It hurt.
It didn't hurt like my UCL tear hurt, or like anything was about to snap. It hurt in a way that I forgot- I felt sore. My back, my chest, my shoulders, my biceps and triceps and forearms and even my hands. A short amount of time before this epiphany-like feeling occurred, I was in the weight room with the head trainer by my side. I was bench pressing, doing tricep extensions, lat pulldowns, bicep curls, seated rows. I was lifting weights that were strenuous to my body. The feeling that I had, the soreness I had possessed in the muscles in my upper body, was something that I had not felt in what seemed like forever. I was tired from lifting weights...just like I had been so many times in the past. Only this time it was different because my new UCL was involved.
Yesterday morning was the first time since surgery that I felt normal. My arm didn't debilitate me in a way that I wasn't capable of doing something that I'd typically be able to do. Was I lifting a lot of weight? No. The people in the gym around me were probably smirking at the 200 pound college senior who was struggling to incline bench press 20 pound dumbbells, all while a trainer closely monitored my movements and I dripped sweat from my brow. But I didn't care, they didn't know what I'd been through. They didn't know how invigorating it was to be able to lift that weight. They didn't know how sensational it felt to look in the mirror as the weight would go up and down and see my left arm straighten and contract- my scar along with it- and not have accompanying pain. They didn't know.
The soreness that I felt yesterday morning after my physical therapy session gave me the first glance of the future. Since my surgery on July 21, I've gone from not being able to move my arm an inch or grip a cup to doing pushups and bicep curls. In approximately 17 days, I will be cleared to throw a baseball. From there, the progression will continue. The rejuvenation that occurred through my weight room experience yesterday has, in theory, created a new Josh:
My goal is no longer to win the race every day. My daily battle is no longer an attempt to make sure the following physical therapy appointment runs smoothly and successful. My longterm goal that I so strongly committed to since I received word of the dreadful procedure was to be able to get on the mound again. But since then, it's been somewhat of a pipedream. Nothing that I ever did caused me to actually envision myself stepping on the bump at any point in the future. I couldn't foresee it. It was too far away, too physically demanding.
Yesterday's experience allowed me to revert back to a sense of normalcy. I could do exercises I was familiar with, exercises I was comfortable with. I could accomplish things that are habitual for a competitive athlete, and I could do them with no recurring physical setback. That sense of normalcy, that small window of opportunity I was provided with, allows me to finally envision what my goal has been for so long: getting back on the mound. I finally feel like I'm almost there, that all this work is allowing me to truly reach that achievement.
The tunnel vision that I described in my horse racing approach is no longer relevant. Every day does not become a necessity for the following session. Every day now becomes a necessity for pitching. Because for the first time, I can see it happening.
I can see myself pitching.
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