I received an email on Sunday from a man from California who's college aged son had Tommy John Surgery performed by Dr. Andrews right around the same time that I did, and he explained that the protocol that his son had received from the rehabilitation center at the Andrews Institute was different than the one I explained in my previous blog post. He sent me a PDF copy of his son's document for comparison to mine. Upon receiving this email I found that there was one looming difference between the protocols: his said that he was supposed to go out to 120 feet of throwing, and mine said 180 feet of throwing.
I was curious as to why two individuals who are both pitchers had the same surgery and got different post-op protocols from the same doctor. I remembered that the Institute opened at 8:30 AM Central Time, and waited until the clock struck 9:30 here to call. I left a message with the secretary in the rehabilitation center and requested a phone call back, partially explaining my situation. Approximately ten minutes later, my phone vibrated and I recognized the 850 area code. I answered and explained my inquisition to the man on the other line, who presented himself as a trainer and an employee of the rehab center. After telling him that I was curious as to why my program said to go to 180 feet and my friend's only said to go to 120 feet, he let out an enormous "oh my goodness". He quickly told me that they must have supplied me the wrong protocol. Position players are supposed to continue the throwing program out to 180 feet before returning to the field in a game. Pitchers are only supposed to go to 120 feet before beginning Phase II of the program. I said that it wasn't an issue and requested that he faxed the correct form to the athletic training staff at my school, which he gladly agreed to.
Instead of proceeding to 150 feet like I had originally intended to yesterday morning, I followed the new protocol as I am supposed to. I warmed up appropriately and proceeded to line myself up 60 feet away from my target, where I unleashed 30 flat ground throws while going through my pitching mechanics. The pitches I threw were all gripped like a four-seam fastball and did not particularly have extraordinary velocity. The act of pitching, however, was amazingly gratifying. Seeing myself lift my leg, stride out and hit my target 60 feet away was very reminiscent of past pitching experiences, despite the fact that I was throwing on a flat surface and not throwing the ball hard. I was able to find a rhythm, to repeat my mechanics, and to feel the ball leaving the fingertips in a similar fashion to how they had been in the past. After my allotted 30 throws, I ceased the session and walked down to the training room with immense satisfaction.
The fact that I am able to theoretically skip ahead in steps that I previously thought I would be required to complete is a wonderful feeling. I will now be officially scheduled to throw off a mound for the first time on February 6 according to the newly received protocol from the Andrews Institute. I told the trainers, a few of my teammates, coaches, friends, my girlfriend and my parents about the good news, to which they all expressed excitement. I arrived home after working out and was still extremely excited about receiving the news that I will be able to progress more than I was supposed to. I paced around my room for several minutes trying to think of a way to properly harness the newfound energy I had. I did some pushups, some crunches. I checked my email, my Facebook, my Twitter. I did some more pushups. But the jubilation wasn't so much physical as it was an emotional relief. I wanted so badly to be able to share the information with someone. Not someone that would feel happy for me, like many people did. But someone who could empathize- who could truly understand why I was so excited and why this news felt so monumental to me.
There are an abundance of people in my life that have been so extremely supportive of me throughout this entire process. There are also people that have lived through this with me vicariously...my roommates, my parents, my girlfriend, my best friends. There are those who have gone through the procedure before me and can assist me in some of the mental battles during the experience, sharing their own stories on the phone and urging me to have continued patience and perseverance.
Reality, however, is that no one is going through these feelings with me. No one can quantify my emotions step by step because no one truly understands how I feel each minute of the day. Through the thick and thin roller coaster that is Tommy John recovery, one of the toughest occurrences is the pure loneliness. Day after day after day of pushing yourself to your limits, of dealing with anguish and adversity, of experiencing the highest of highs and the lowest of lows- and for the most part, its done alone.
I am extremely grateful for those individuals who are close to me and have helped me (and will hopefully continue to help me) during this time in my life. The vocal outlets that are available to me have been some of the most influential aspects of my existence during this time. This blog is also an outlet, and I am extremely grateful for each and every reader that continually logs in and reads through each diatribe against this operation. But no one, no one in the entire world feels the way I feel and observes what I observe at the exact time that I do. There are many different people I can turn to for support that are more than willing to listen and provide me the shoulder that I need to lean on. But there is no one that is living my experiences minute by minute that can relate to what I feel.
Whether the news is as negative as a setback or as positive as finding out that your rehab has been paced faster than expected, it is difficult to find an empathizing soul that can quantify my expression.
In that respect, for better or for worse, Tommy John is a lonely, lonely process.
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