Livin' on a Prayer

There's an old saying that I've heard throughout much of my life that many things, good or bad, come in bunches. Tommy John Surgery is no different in that respect. With Tommy John, those things come in bunches of six. It was originally supposed to be a six hour flight to Pensacola, with layovers, but of course that drastically changed (http://joshherzenberg.blogspot.com/2011/07/d-day.html). Six days post-op I lifted a cup of water to my mouth for the first time. Six weeks post-op was the first day I could be in public without the bionic arm. SIXteen weeks (bear with me) post-op, I threw a baseball for the first time. And next Saturday, January 21, 2012, is the point that is six months post-op for me.

Six months. That's pretty incredible to think about. I've gone from literally not being able to move my fingers to throwing a ball 120 feet. I've gone from not being able to press a button on an elevator to doing pushups. I've gone from not being able to bend or straighten my arm even a centimeter to curling dumbbells and performing triceps pushdowns.

The amazement that the progression leaves me with is an incredibly satisfying feeling. To track my step-by-step daily growth is an experience that is one of a kind because it enables me to not only sense the gratification of my current standing, but reminisce a bit on what I was in the past.

Yet through all of the self-fulfilling accomplishments and progress that I have already been through, there's one underlying startling fact behind the entire scenario:

Six.

Six months.

Six months means I'm halfway there.

Halfway? Are you kidding me? I've been working every single day of my life since surgery to get to the point that I am today. Literally every day. I would estimate that the amount of hours I've put into the rehabilitation of my arm would be several, several hundred, and may be just about eclipsing into the thousands. I have never had a setback and continually strive to make steps towards the next phase of my rehab.

I've written a few times in the past about my final desire to reach my goal of pitching competitively in a game once again. Of course, that is the goal of every individual that has some sort of operation. They'd love to get back to their original self...or even better than their original self. I am no different from the next person in that respect and will continue to push to enable myself to reach that goal. My fears aren't any different than those individuals either...fears of not being able to reach those goal, of peaking at a plateau that is not high enough, of a setback.

My goals have not changed at all since I received that initial phone call from Dr. Andrews. As soon as I heard the words over the phone- in a calm southern drawl- "You need Tommy John Surgery," my brain went to work. I yearned so badly to prove to myself that I can perform at a high level once again, and to regain the euphoric atmosphere that surrounds me when I step on the mound. I yearned to prove to others that I had the work ethic and the persistence to be able to accomplish that feat. Mostly though, I yearned to just play baseball again. That's all I wanted to do. Just play.

I've been on an emotional roller coaster in the last six months that is not quite something that an individual can prepare for. I sometimes feel emotionally drained, and sometimes feel as though it's not worth it anymore. Other times I feel like I am progressing my way into a World Series start at Yankee Stadium. However, the most startling aspect of the process is simple: I've done so much to get to this point already and yet I still have so much more to go. I've pushed myself to my extreme limits- mentally and physically- just to get halfway there.

Despite the somewhat distraught and stressful feeling that I have in association with the thought of enduring another six months of progressive misery, I know there is still hope. This morning I was in New York City working out with three buddies of mine, all of whom were right-handed pitchers who were all drafted by Major League teams at the end of their college careers. The catch? At one point during their time in college, they were required to redshirt a season due to undergoing Tommy John Surgery. We talked for a while about the process, shared stories about the ups and downs of rehab, and laughed when we all put our arms up in the air to reveal the oh-so-familiar scar (http://joshherzenberg.blogspot.com/2011/07/greek-life-of-sports-medicine.html). I continued doing what I was doing, and they went to the other side of the facility to throw with each other in preparation for spring training, which is quickly approaching. After a minute or so, I made my way to them just to watch for a minute. I witnessed baseballs being whipped back and forth with no reserve, provided a resounding thud of the mitt with every single throw. There was no hesitation, no difficulties.

These young men, my friends, had endured everything I am going through right now and still made their way to the end of the program. They successfully recovered from Tommy John and are being compensated with it by having professional contracts. They got passed the barrier, over the hump, and continued to move. White Sox, Reds, Angels.

I've been through this whole process for six months. Six. Halfway there.