The last day and a half has been one of the most exhausting, uncomfortable and stressful experiences I have ever had to deal with. I clocked out of my last day of summer work on Tuesday the 19th, headed home to pack my bags, and hopped in the car. My father and I were scheduled to fly out of Westchester County Airport in New York at 5:29 PM, have a minor layover at Reagan National in Washington DC and then catch a connecting flight from Reagan to New Orleans. We would stay overnight in New Orleans using Marriott points my mom had accumulated over time, and then rent a car and drive to Pensacola for my 9:30 AM appointment with Dr. Andrews.
Upon arriving in our nation's capitol, I caught wind of some news...the flight to New Orleans was delayed. It would not be taking off from DC until 9:40 PM, which would eliminate any shot of my father and I enjoying the French Quarter of New Orleans like we'd originally planned to. We shrugged at each other and headed to the bathroom. After using the facilities at the airport, we walked out towards the terminal and glanced back up at the screen that read "Departures." Suddenly, the flight was changed to "Delayed- 10:30." Immediately, we headed to the customer service desk.
After waiting for about a half hour to talk to someone from U.S Airways, the man informed us that the plane still had to go from DC to Manchester, New Hampshire and back to DC before refueling and heading to New Orleans. At that moment, the departure time of our New Orleans flight was bumped back to 11:30 PM. We began to get worried that the flight would be cancelled and postponed until the next day and we'd be stranded in Washington, having to resort to getting a hotel room in the area for the night and then rescheduling the appointment with Dr. Andrews the following morning. After sharing this concern with the customer service representative, he informed us that he thought we should switch flights and go to Charlotte, North Carolina. From there we could catch a connecting flight to Mobile, Alabama and work our way over to Pensacola from there. We agreed to this, got our new boarding passes printed and headed for the gate.
The boarding time for the plane never changed, and we assumed our positions in our seats. I put my iPod on and closed my eyes. And I waited. And waited. And waited. The plane taxied for nearly an hour, obviously waiting to take off and dealing with a delay on the runway. We finally got in the air and headed for Charlotte. The ride was smooth and easy, and we landed in relatively short time. When we landed, I turned on my phone and glanced at the time. 11:02 PM.
The connecting flight to Mobile had departed at 10:50.
We got off the plane and ran to the "Departures" board to find the news that the flight had left. We tried to find another U.S. Airways representative, but could not find a person willing and able to help us. We thought about renting a car from Charlotte and just driving to Pensacola, but the rental car companies informed us that they'd sold out of vehicles. We called around to all the local hotels and were informed there were no rooms available. There was no transportation, no shelter, and no way for us to get to the Florida Panhandle in 10 hours.
At about 1 AM, we decided to call it quits. There was no shot at us finding anything helpful. I'd exhausted my limited networking options that I know in western North Carolina to no avail, and spent a while complaining about the lack of assistance from U.S. Airways with the other passengers who had missed their flights also. My dad and I walked down to the baggage claim area, went to the bathroom to brush our teeth and put on some deodorant, and found a cozy little nook underneath a staircase. We put our bags down on the ground and used them as pillows. It was a far cry from the original plans...drinks on Bourbon Street and then the luxury of a queen bed at a Marriott. But we had no other options.
We arose at 4:30 AM and scurried to the U.S Airways desk, excited just at the prospect that the company would ACTUALLY help us get to our destination we'd set out for the afternoon before. Lo and behold, someone had cancelled their reservations. There were seats available on a flight directly out of Charlotte into Pensacola at 9:40 AM. I phoned ahead to the doctor's office immediately to inform them of the situation, and was told to not worry about it and just get there when I could.
Finally, we'd arrived. Our rental car was waiting for us at the Pensacola airport, and we hopped in and drove straight to the Andrews Institute. Tired, weary and frankly a bit smelly, we pulled up to the building in Gulf Breeze, Florida. And what a sight it was. A large brick building with "Andrews Institute for Orthopaedics and Sports Medicine" illuminated on a sign in the front of the building. It was like a dream for me...140,000 square feet, the finest facilities in the world, all geared towards the research, development and rehabilitation of athletes. It seemed like a haven for physically gifted individuals, and a lifesaver for those who's bodies have seemingly given out on them at times.
I walked into Dr. Andrews's office and signed the sheet at the front, right under Maurice Jones-Drew and Jeffrey Owens of the NFL...both consulting with Dr. Andrews after having knee operations from him in the past. I kind of chuckled, knowing that there was a very good chance a professional athlete would be in the building, but still amazed at the sight that my name was printed simply and directly underneath where they printed theirs. I had a quick X-ray taken to analyze my bone structure. They contorted both my left and right arm in odd positions, and compared the results.
After about a half hour of watching a CNN report about famine in Somalia in the waiting room, I was beckoned in by Jeremy Geus, the man who'd been on the other end of the phone coordinating everything with me over the past week and a half. He politely introduced himself and situated me in an examination room and told me the doctor would be in to see me in a minute.
The door opened and in walked Dr. Andrews. A slender man in his late 60s, it was evident that he had been an athlete in the past (a quick Google search told me later that he'd been an SEC champion polevaulter at LSU). He provided a firm handshake, and spoke in a soft and calm southern accent. He and I shot the breeze for a few minutes, he asked what my father did for a living and asked me about my plans for the future. He asked about my flight, and gave some restaurant suggestions for dinner (Maguire's Irish Pub in downtown Pensacola is where we ended up...highly recommended). Then we dove into the elbow. On the computer display in front of me was the original MRI from April and the subsequent one from a few weeks ago, juxtaposed against each other. He explained what he saw in simple terms, and pointed out where the UCL tear was. The other doctor in the room, a young man who I later found out was one of four who serve a fellowship under the guidance of Dr. Andrews, reassured me that the initial diagnosed of a torn flexor muscle that was revealed to be incorrect was very common and that the resulting physical therapy I had received was pretty much the same as it would have been if I had a partial UCL tear. The UCL had healed up a bit, but was still detached from the bone near the caudal region of the elbow. Thus, the determination had been made that Tommy John would be required.
I stayed in the office for about ten more minutes, filling out some paperwork. Then they sent me downstairs to the surgical unit, where I'd schedule my appointment with the attending nurse and meet with the anesthesiologist. That process was quite simple, some more paperwork and a quick little interview. Then it was off across the hall to the physical therapy unit, where I'd be fitted for my brace and handed a program to follow once the surgery was finished.
The physical therapist explained to me that I'd be in a padded sling for about a week, and then switched out of that and into the plastic brace (the bionic arm I alluded to a few days ago) that could be adjusted on a dial to enable more or less flexibility of the arm depending on the degree of extension or flexion Dr. Andrews desired me to be on at that time. For the first few days in the sling, the physical therapist gave me a set of exercises to keep blood flow and muscular coordination in the forearm and shoulder regions, which involve very basic motions that don't involve any stress on the surgically repaired elbow. I asked him when I could start running and doing core work again, and he told me once I'm in the "bionic arm" I can do anything I want as long as it doesn't involve the left arm.
Once the bionic arm is fastened to me, I can remove it at will. However, Dr. Andrews stressed that the only time it should be taken off is to shower, and shouldn't be taken off in public. He paused for a second and let out a quick wisecrack- "Well, I guess if you get pulled over while driving you should take it off quickly."
After about three weeks of the bionic arm handling the brunt of the flexibility exercises for the elbow, I was told I'd be permitted to begin taking it off under the guidance of a physical therapist and begin to do flexibility exercises without it's assistance. All this, combined with the continual basic exercises for the shoulder and forearm, would cover the bulk of my initial physical therapy appointments.
The physical therapist explained to me that the six week mark was an important milestone, because that will be when the bionic arm can be removed. If I can completely straighten the arm without any issues or assistance from the prosthetic device, I would then proceed to weighted exercises and continual strengthening of the entire area. And then of course in the distant future from there, throwing. At the four month mark, Dr. Andrews would like to see me back at the Institute and do a thorough evaluation. If all goes well, the hope is that I'll be able to start a progressive throwing program at that point. He is generally cautious about starting anything before then for fear that the arm might not be strong and healed enough, and stated that in the past it has taken some six months to get to the point where they're able to throw. Patience, in this case, will obviously be a virtue, because these aspects are things I can only control so much.
At around 2 PM, I gathered all the paperwork and information I'd received and left with my father to check into the hotel back across the bay in downtown Pensacola. We'd grab a quick nap, savoring the feeling of a real shower and a mattress, and head to dinner. We explored Pensacola Beach a little bit, and marveled at the white sand and warm temperature of the Gulf of Mexico.
I sit up in my hotel bed now writing this, watching Sportscenter and listening to my dad snore in the bed on the other side of the room. I'm scheduled to arrive at the Andrews Institute at 5:30 AM for a pre-op appointment, with anesthesia and the ensuing operation to begin with Dr. Andrews at 7 AM. From there, a day of recovery and rest at the hotel followed by a follow-up appointment Friday morning with Dr. Andrews and the physical therapists to make sure everything went well.
I'll bid my goodbyes for now, being that I now have less than an hour until the midnight deadline that is set when I can't have anything to eat or drink. There's a can of honey roasted peanuts and a glass of Arnold Palmer on the dresser that have my name on them. Then, it's off to sleep and an early morning rise to head back to the Andrews Institute.
Thursday, July 21st, 2011 at 7 AM will be my own personal surrogate D-Day. The start of a new chapter of my life. Tommy John Surgery.
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