Sequential Suspicion(s)

There's a running joke in my family that my mother is the second worst singer in the entire world...behind her sister. Since I was a toddler I remember being subjected to the monotone pitches that would shriek out of their mouths and somehow be construed as music. When I was in high school I would be awoken early in the morning to my mother singing along to her iPod while she was on the elliptical machine she had purchased. Normally I am a deep sleeper- but these sounds were quite overbearing.

I have dealt with small obstacles in my life that are filled with a rather mundane monotony other than just my family's dreadful singing (note: I'm pretty sure my mom and aunt will read this. I love you guys regardless of your lack of musicality). I've had insipid schoolteachers, humdrum jobs and repetitious social experiences. Monotony is something that is an aspect of everyone's life I believe...not everything can be exciting 24/7.

Two weeks ago my girlfriend moved into a new apartment after securing a job as a Registered Nurse at a large regional hospital. A few days into her tenure in the apartment she made an exclamation that she was very excited for the repairman to come the following day to fix the dishwasher. I responded by telling her that she sounded like an old person, getting excited over a dishwasher. That prompted an immature argument, with her trying to defend herself and me continuing to be obnoxious.

The last few days I spent reflecting on some of these circumstances. In reality, karma has finally come to bite me. All the years I teased my mom and aunt about their vocal prowess and the monotony of their craft is coming back to bite me. Calling my girlfriend an "old person" for getting excited over something that seems so inadequate is coming back to bite me. Of course, I should have seen it coming.

Tommy John Surgery seems to dictate a lot of emotions in my life and this is no different. The process is extremely monotonous and involves an incredible sense of gratitude for the small steps in life. So in a way, I have my mom and my aunt to thank- for allowing me to put up with their monotone singing. Week after week is spent in physical therapy, clawing my way through each exercise at a pace of progression so slow it is difficult to comprehend. The recovery process is, in my opinion, the pure definition of monotonous, and monotonous is something that I've become accustomed to putting up with over the years. I owe my girlfriend an apology for sarcastically ridiculing her about her enthusiasm over a dishwasher. My days are spent evaluating my success by fulfilling my requirements in physical therapy. I get excited over lifting an extra pound or throwing an extra five feet. These elations are rather trivial in the overall scheme of things, probably more so than receiving a dishwasher (I hate doing dishes as much as the next person).

Truth be told, the trials and tribulations of the emotional turmoil that is associated with the recovery are dwindling. I've outlined them many times in the past- the gruesome grind and unforgiving pain that are connected with the process. But the random aches and pains are subsiding. The constant roller coaster of desire and despair is diminishing. My rehab now consists of strengthening all parts of my body; from the toes to the scalp. Most importantly, of course, is keeping up with the throwing program laid out for me and making sure that my elbow is continually getting stronger. The daily grind is still very prevalent, the distress is not.

What has begun to set in for me is a difficult thought to process, and one that I haven't expressed to anyone up until this point. At week six I felt uneasy with the notion that my "bionic arm" would be removed and I would live life on my own. At week 12 I felt uneasy with the notion that I would begin lifting free weights without the guidance of resistance bands or mechanical spotters. At week 16 I felt uneasy about throwing a baseball. I presume I will be a little hesitant the first time I long toss, the first time I step on a mound, the first time I throw a curveball, the first time I pitch in a game.

All of the above are directly correlated with the intent of my rehab, to return to the playing field. I expect myself to do so and I expect myself to do so with success. My original motive was simple: I didn't want my last pitch to be a stray curveball to the backstop in the first inning of a game. I wanted to prove to myself that I could come back from this injury and continue to compete at which I know I can compete. I have no doubt in my mind that I will be able to return to the game and accomplish all that I wish to. But I have not competed in any sport whatsoever since that fateful pitch in April. And I will not be competing presumably until at least the summer of 2012. I am under the assumption that I will be satisfied with my performance in the future and then will thus be content with moving onto whatever my life has in store for me.

But what if I'm not satisfied? What if I'm disappointed in my performance or yearn for more in the future? What if I am filling my head with a false sense of hope and presumption? I have been telling myself I'm destined to succeed in my quest, and I am destined to compete at an adequately high level once I return to the field. What if this is not true, and I crave more? What if I panic and revert back to my my emotional roller coaster? I have been mentally strong for quite a while thus far and will strive to continue to do so. But I fear my reaction once the emotions rush back in...once the feeling of competition hits me once again...once the potential adversity strikes. I fear how I will respond, what I'll turn to, what I'll resort in. I fear what I'll do.

Well, I guess my sentiment a few paragraphs above was woefully mistaken. The roller coaster has not left my thoughts at all. In fact, it's still the early stages of the process.