The Root of Psychological Dismay

Human emotions are a magnificent abyss of habitual turmoil. Tommy John Surgery, in theory, is an expounding doctrine of this phenomenon. I was once told that Navy SEALS are trained under the belief that the body is capable of doing ten times its normal physical capacity if the mind is properly trained. Thus, the assumption I've come to is that the mind controls much of what an individual accomplishes through his or her daily encounters and interactions. Whether those results are positive or negative is the sole responsibility of the person who's mind and body are under this influence.

As a college athlete, I am a part of a group of individuals that share a rare title. Only a small percentage of amateur athletes have had the opportunity to participate in their respective sport at the level that I have. While this is certainly recognized by many of the people in this gratefully blessed group, it is also a factor in a trait that is developed inside of us as well. Most- if not all college athletes thrive on the feeling of physical accomplishment. We spend umpteen hours preparing ourselves for competition, constantly working towards the betterment of our capabilities. In the end, our accomplishment is weighed in the success that we have in the arena of our competition; eminent prosperity in the form of self-gratification.

When I stepped into the rehabilitation facility portion of the Andrews Institute the day following surgery, I knew that I could manage with the physical therapy portion of the process. After all, I was well-accustomed to the sequential operation that comes with physical preparation. I was used to getting into the mindset of short bursts of daily focus, and seeing the results of my work over a gradual period of time. So when they told me that the process would take "a long time" and things would go "very slowly", I was comfortable with that. Rome wasn't built in a day.

Something else that athletes have been required to learn is how to adjust to failure. Very often an athlete comes across some sort of adversity that isn't typically experienced in other walks of life. And the better athletes...the ones who continue playing the game at higher levels...become very good at overcoming that adversity. These events, the trials and tribulations of athletics, is sometimes more prevalent in baseball than in any other sport. The best hitters that ever lived fail 70% of the time, having to hit a fast moving round object with a round bat and hit it squarely. A pitcher's job is to throw a 5 ounce ball with velocity and movement over a 17 inch-wide pentagon 60 feet 6 inches away from the 10 inch high mound of dirt he stands on. These practices test the realistic limitations that the study of physics has set on human kinetics. Failure becomes second nature to baseball players.

I am no different than any of the other athletes that have dealt with some sort of failure during their athletic careers. I've given up walk-off hits and back-to-back home runs. I've struck out three times in a game and made a game losing error. I've lost plenty of sleep because of my athletic struggles and I've thrown a haymaker at plenty of pillows and punching bags. But when the day is over and all of those emotions dwindle, I am able to hone myself back in. I am able to continue to physically prepare myself and continue to strive for consistent success on the field.

I have said numerous times on this blog that Tommy John Surgery is catastrophically difficult mentally. Many others have shared this sentiment as well. This Friday, however, I had an epiphany...a Eureka-like moment. I realized why the recovery is so difficult.

The recovery is not so difficult because of the lack of physical capabilities that you have. It is very frightening to walk into an ambulatory surgical center perfectly healthy and be wheeled out a few hours later with a motionless and damaged arm. It is very alarming to watch as you are physical incapable of squeezing a stress ball in your hand. It is very startling to struggle through one-pound bicep curls. But the main theme in all of the above instances is progression. Slowly but surely, you get better. You see the swelling decreasing, flexibility increasing, strength increases, capabilities skyrocket. It isn't an overnight sensation, but there is a constant progression during a successful recovery. Therefore, the mental difficulty does not lie within the lack of physical capabilities.

The recovery is also not so difficult because of the detachment from the game of baseball. It most certainly is not easy standing on the sidelines in the dugout watching your teammates perform on the field that you were on just a short time ago. It is definitely discouraging to see pitch after pitch and swing after swing and knowing that you aren't able to participate in any of it. But, it could be worse. You're still there with your teammates, providing them with emotional support and dedication. Team is a huge factor in the sport of baseball and the bonding role of each particular player is crucial for the overall success of the team. Even though you can't throw a ball, you're still part of that unit, and you are contributing in some way. And lest not forget about that "progression" word...you will eventually be back on the mound. Therefore, the detachment from the game is not the reason for the mental difficulties because you are still around your team and you will be back on the field at some point in the future.

By far the most glaring reason as to why the recovery is so difficult is one that is in truth, quite simple:

You don't have control of your recovery from adversity.

As an athlete, you are trained to recover from adversity. Your whole athletic/competitive atmosphere is geared towards learning how to get back up on that horse. The cliche inspirational quotes are plentiful...Wayne Gretzky's "I miss 100% of the shots I don't take" and Michael Jordan's "I've failed over and over and over again and that is why I succeed." Your entire athletic life revolves around these concepts. It's motivational and it's usually successful.

On Friday I started a new exercise in which I held a one pound rubber exercise ball (about the size of a softball) and stood six inches away from the wall. I took the ball and held my arm at a 90 degree angle and proceeded to throw the ball into the wall and then catch it on the rebound. Prior to surgery I'd hop up to the wall and whip a few throws without even thinking twice about the ramifications on my arm. This time, of course, was different.

I timidly stepped up to the wall and began the exercise. I went through every throw, and refused to let loose. Then, as I built some confidence, the trainer said I needed to get more flexibility in the back, to create more of a "whipping" motion with my arm. I cocked my arm backwards and began to bring it forward...and I felt a twinge in my elbow.

I immediately stopped. I told the trainer what I felt and that it was the first time I'd ever felt anything in the exact spot of the injury. I was told it was very normal and that this is the first time we've put this much valgus force on the new UCL, and its just tight. If there's no pain, I was fine. I accepted this explanation and kept going through the exercise. Sure enough the feeling never got any worse, just remained during each release. A little twinge, a pulling in the elbow.

After I got home from my physical therapy session on Friday I lay down in my bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. I just had something occur...something that I deemed out of the ordinary. Something that usually is a form of adversity, a temporary setback that I can conquer through my preparation and my dedication to my mental and physical state of mind. I could will myself through it and use my natural athlete instincts to enable myself to reach that eventual plateau of success. In this instance, however, I had no control of the outcome. I knew it bothered me, I knew why, I knew it was OK. What I didn't know was how to fix it. What could I do to make it better? Can I work a little harder at physical therapy?

Maybe I should do an extra set of an exercise or a little more weight on a band. Maybe I should hit the gym twice as hard so that the muscles supporting the area strengthen quicker and provide better results. Maybe I can study video and analyze my technique so that I repeat good habits for the future.

Unfortunately, none of the above are possible. I have to abide by exactly what is written in the protocol or I will be detrimental to my future. I can't control my own fate, I can't tweak something and make it work overall. I can't focus my body into performing in the way that I want it to.

This yearlong process would be a whole lot easier mentally if I was able to fix things myself. But I can't...not now, not in a week, not in three months. I'm a lab experiment to medical research, and my arm is the test mouse. The frustration lies not within the length of time or the physical disabilities or the baseball detachments. The frustration lies in my lack of control to recover from adversity.

That's the worst part of it all.

A Foreshadowing Performance

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.

"I have been known on occasion to howl at the moon"

Towards the end of the movie Bull Durham, Crash Davis comes to the startling realization that his life as a professional baseball player is most likely coming to an end. An aging career minor leaguer, Crash spent many years in small town USA living the dream. All the while he battled his own moral hesitations and personal failures in pursuit of the ultimate goal...to make it to "The Show", or the Major Leagues. "The Show", as Crash describes it in the movie, is where "you hit white balls for batting practice, the ballparks are like cathedrals, the hotels all have room service, and the women all have long legs and brains."

There is a phenomenal exchange in Bull Durham that always seems to capture me. Towards the end of the movie when Crash (played by Kevin Costner) finds out about his release, he heads to the home of Annie Savoy (played by Susan Sarandon), who is his lover for much of the movie. He informs Annie of his fate, and tells her that his manager briefed him about a managerial opening in Visalia, a city in California with a minor league affiliate. Although he does not come straight out and say it, the movie is scripted in a way that the audience perceives Crash as intending on trying to obtain the managerial job. He sees it as his shot- his potential opportunity- to one day make it to "The Show".

This exchange isn't a particularly famous exchange with respect to the many quotable lines from the movie. However for me, it is the single most relatable line in the entire script. Crash Davis played in the minor leagues for 12 years and his only desire was to establish himself as a formidable and consistent Major League Baseball player. He dedicated his entire life up to that point in the movie to that goal, and pushed to all depths of physical capabilities to obtain that goal. And yet still, as evidenced by the events of the movie, he fell short. He was demoted in order to catch a young stud pitching prospect (Nuke LaLoosh, played by Tim Robbins), and then released once Nuke got his call-up to "The Show". Crash is a firsthand account of the misery of defeat, and the agony of distraught that baseball can bring on an individual. And yet, it is a part of him. It defines him. It consumes him.

Sometimes, I hate baseball. I hate it so much. I sit up at night and ponder to myself, questioning why I love this game so much. It is a game of failure, of perseverance. It does not have so much as but a drop of glamour, and very rarely does one ever excel in it to the point of mastery. But most of all, baseball tortures the mind more than anything else I can ever imagine. It pokes and prods and constantly disappoints. And people like Crash Davis, well, they're just stupid enough to keep on getting up.

Those times that I feel as though I hate baseball are times when I consider myself very much in the same boat as Crash Davis. Baseball is a sport that requires an incredible drive of mental effort and ethical consistency. Baseball is also a sport that can be bipolar in nature, and is more unpredictable than a young child's disposition.

Baseball has been a constant figure in my life since I was five years old. Those were the days of coach-pitch with wood bats, when we'd wear plastic gloves and squat in the outfield picking flowers. When I was ten, my Little League team won our District championship and we thought we were super heros. At 13, I was on the mound pitching for my school team en route to a league championship. I was hooked. It transformed into a passion of mine, something that I could look to for a means of escape from the stresses of the "real world".

That escape has been prevalent throughout my entire life until April 22, 2011. On that day, for reasons I still don't understand, that escape was taken away from me. I could no longer put on my uniform, jog out to the mound, and pitch. I could no longer know the feeling of a four seam fastball coming off the finger tips, or getting a batter swinging at a curveball in the dirt. My escape was quickly converted to a distant memory.

I've attempted to remain level-headed throughout the entire process. I took the responsibility to get the medical care that I desired from the doctor I desired to get it from. I took it upon myself to push through the physical therapy program laid out for me, knowing that it will prevail successfully in the eventual future. I began feverishly researching graduate school programs and contacting coaches there, in hopes that I could obtain a roster spot and play out my last year of eligibility. I've worked hard to maintain a full course load at school. When I need a mini departure from the stresses of reality, I've found solace in my friends and family. My girlfriend Nicole has been there for me through the countless ups and downs, and I've found myself being able to enjoy a sense of happiness and belonging in her presence. I know that in the entire large scheme of things, I am doing just fine. I am a senior in college, applying to some high-level grad schools with a good social life, supportive family and loving girlfriend. I have a good work ethic and have been applying myself physically in order to ensure that I will be successful in accomplishing my long term goal of playing baseball once again.

And yet with all this, I feel empty. I can't play baseball. I can't go out and have a catch, fool around with a friend. I can't feel the joy of the dirt beneath my feet, or the seams in my hand. I can't manage to cope with the pressures of everyday life by resorting to baseball, like I have for so many years.

Crash Davis went through a lot of tough times and failure in Bull Durham. He had plenty of highs and lows. What kept him going was his love for the game. He knew that no matter what happened in his life, the constant that is the game of baseball was something that he couldn't live without. And in that message is where I find myself. I can't see myself being any happier than when I am playing baseball. That ability was taken away from me...and I plan on getting it back.

89 days post-op.

Yin and Yang

As I've said countless times in my past blog posts...in the case of injury rehabilitation- it's the little things that matter. For me, both ends of the spectrum have occurred in the past few days- the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Saturday morning met me with an incredible combination of soreness and swelling. I had a fairly typical physical therapy session the day before, and took all the regular precautionary measures that I had become accustomed to in order to ensure that my arm would recover accordingly. I spent Friday night in my room writing an essay for class and didn't go out to a party or a bar, and got a great night sleep. Yet for whatever reason, upon awakening, my arm was all blown up yet again.

I hadn't seen my arm look like that since I had been in my brace. It had been sore before...plenty worse than it was on Saturday...but never that swollen. I tried moving it around a little bit, figuring that maybe some motion would cause the blood to start flowing back through the arm and decrease the swelling, but that was unsuccessful. I tried massaging out the swollen area, but that didn't help either. It was still puffy and it still ached.

I made my way up to campus to consult with the training staff about this situation. I made it a point not to be too freaked out about it being that last time I barged into the training room with a concern I had a simple suture coming out of my arm...and was the butt of a few hearty jokes. I got out of the car, calmly collected myself, and waltzed into the office.

Once I went over everything I had been feeling and the trainer went through a fairly thorough evaluation, it was determined that I probably just slept on the arm the wrong way. They slapped some ice on it and basically told me that time would heal the swelling. I was fairly receptive of this information, largely due to the fact that I still had full range of motion and capabilities with the arm. I figured that something odd could have possibly happened, and that seemed to be the case exactly.

Lo and behold, the trainers were right. By Saturday night, the swelling and tenderness had pretty much fully diminished. Everything else was, at the point, an afterthought. I went about my business Saturday night and into Sunday afternoon with no reserves, enjoying a social life with my friends and enjoying sleeping in late in the morning (yes, I am still in college and don't do well in the morning). I woke up Sunday morning refreshed, made myself some lunch, and sat down to watch football with my roommates. I joked with them all day, hung out enjoying the beautiful weather outside, and relaxed throughout the majority of the day. Once football was done, I retreated back to my room to finish up my homework assignments for the weekend. I swiftly completed these, and got myself ready for bed. It was getting late and after all, I had another physical therapy session Monday morning.

I set my alarm and dozed off to sleep. I am normally a pretty heavy sleeper...I may roll around in bed and wake up to go to the bathroom every once in a blue moon. At around 3 AM Monday morning, I woke up to a splitting headache. I was dizzy and my stomach was in knots. I jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom, and got sick...twice. I went back to bed and crawled under the covers, shivering in a cold sweat. My head continued to spin and my body started aching. About ten minutes later, I got sick again.

This routine continued until about 4:30, when I was pretty sure I needed to determine the fate of the rest of my day. I called the training room and left a message, explaining what was going on and that I probably would not be able to make it into rehab a few hours after that. I tried to make a mental schedule of my day to see if there was any way I could finagle my way out of any other responsibilities. Then, I got sick again.

I slept most of the day away on Monday, negating most of the responsibilities I had for the day (I didn't have any classes scheduled but did have a meeting and fall practice, both of which I missed). I had a full blown flu, with a fever and shakes and a vicious stomach bug. I was deliriously miserable, weak and ill.

Upon awakening Tuesday morning, I'd regained much of the strength I lost the day before. I still ached a bit (most likely from the act of getting sick) but my stomach felt much better. I attended all my classes throughout the day and a meeting at night. I occupied myself with classes and assignments and meetings and socializing. I was weak and tired, but I could manage.

I got home at night and completed a little bit of busy work I had for class and went to bed early. I knew I needed to have a good night sleep if I was going to attend physical therapy on Wednesday with full health. I hit the sack with ample time to rest, and made sure that everything was in order to optimize my sleep. When I woke up this morning, I felt great. My stomach was pretty much completely fine, my muscles were feeling better and I had caught up on some much needed sleep. I arrived at physical therapy eager to begin the day, and started on the exercises laid out for me.

And I struggled. A lot.

The trainer and I both agreed that I should take it a bit easy today being that I'd been sick and I was probably still weak. I completed all of the exercises at hand at a very slow pace and didn't overexert myself in any way. In relative terms to what I'd been going through in the last few days, PT overall was a success. Yet still, it was incredibly frustrating. I hadn't attended physical therapy on Monday and couldn't completely get through all of my exercises on Wednesday. It's been almost a week since I got a "real" session in, and deviating from routine is difficult at this stage. I understood that there is nothing anyone can do to control what happened, but I still feel rather hindered.

Then, I received a piece of news that rocked my world a bit. I began reading the protocol given to me by Dr. Andrews and saw that on week 12 I could "begin swimming and hitting a baseball." I quickly turned to the trainer and asked if I could hit. After getting the customary "you're a pitcher" response, I explained that I know I don't hit in games but I would love to be able to just take a few swings and be able to get back into the feel for the game. I was greeted with a calm confirmation, solidifying my feeling of contentment with the news.

I grabbed a buddy of mine and drove to the baseball field, where I would grab a bat and a bucket of balls and head to the batting cages beyond the left field fence. My friend would throw batting practice to me, ever so lightly, and I would haplessly swing at the balls being thrown my way. I'd pop some of them up, hit some of them into the ground, and square some up for a line drive. The results of the BP mattered to me about as much as the color of a couch matters to a blind person. What mattered was this: I was swinging a baseball bat and hitting baseballs, and it didn't hurt. In fact, it didn't feel any different than it ever felt in the past...despite the fact that my last at-bat was in the state tournament in high school. I was participating, playing baseball, for the first time since surgery. It was a feeling so invigorating for me that I can't describe it. I felt as though that bat belonged in my hand, that I belonged in that batting cage. I felt comfortable. I felt great.

Sweatshirts and Pumpkin Spice Coffee

I spent some time today in between my classes reading over some of my past blog posts. Aside from the occasional "slap-yourself-in-the-face" grammatical errors that I didn't catch for whatever reason during my original edits, I thought I did a fine job describing my feelings up to this point in the process. However, one thing irked me quite a bit with a few of the previous posts. I began to discuss how the reaction of those around me was beginning to diminish and things were returning, more or less, back to normal.

I don't mean for this to be conceived as me saying "no one cares anymore." Nor do I mean for this to be conceived as me saying "I don't need anyone to care anymore." Neither statement could be farther from the truth. When anything happens that alters the path of your life, a support group is one of the most important aspects of recovering from that incident. Whether it be an injury, an addiction, a loss of a loved one or simply just stress from everyday life, the reinforcement from the people that you surround yourself with is crucial. For me, the elbow injury has had a huge affect on my life, and there are many times when I feel overwhelmed with the situation at hand.

Having the support group I've had has been a huge assistance in making the process a little bit easier. I've had support from professors, coaches, administrators, trainers, doctors, friends, family...the list goes on and on. Everyone understands what I'm going through, and everyone has offered to help. The support group doesn't necessarily require the quantity that I've outlined. But it certainly requires the compassion. Tommy John recovery is a long and difficult road and is no easy task for anyone that is going through it. The support group can only be a positive.

The benefit of such an empathetic support group has somewhat made the process become more familiar to me. I have been able to focus on the things that are important and not get lost in the cumbersome future. It is pivotal to keep in mind that everyday is the most important day of your recovery, and that looking far ahead into the future is not a good thing to do. If I sit here today and begin to plan out my future, I get flustered. I still have approximately nine months to go until I am projected to be back on a mound, and that seems like an eternity from now. I've been through almost 11 weeks thus far and I can't imagine doing it for four times that amount. But, that's reality. That's what has to happen. So there's no need to think about it, I might as well just focus on what needs to get done at this present time and let things fall into place according to how the doctor says they are going to.

That, of course, is not to say that I'm not aware of my scheduled progress. As of today, the date that I am scheduled to begin throwing is November 10th. I spoke with Jeremy Geus last week, who is the assistant for Dr. Andrews. He explained to me that an in-depth evaluation sheet that would be filled out by my physical therapist is something that Dr. Andrews wants. Once that is read, we might do a Skype meeting...a video conference version of a doctor-patient talk...so that he can see the progression for himself. If he deems that everything seems smooth, he will then clear me to throw. This was certainly great news to hear, being that it will enable my father and me to save money on airplane tickets back down to Pensacola. I know that from November 10th on, I will be progressing on a very strict throwing routine...every other day...until I reach the point where I'll be cleared to throw off a mound, several months down the road.

One of the biggest obstacles that is beginning to form is the weather. I will state this right now: I HATE snow. I don't find snow pretty or fun or festive. Snow is a nuisance to the conveniences of life and cold weather is miserable. My mom always tells the story that I would stay inside during snowfall when I was a little kid. While all the other children were building snowmen and having snowball fights, I'd just sit inside and wait for spring to come around. So it is very ironic, and somewhat humorous, that I chose to attend college in upstate New York, a place where winter temperatures regularly fall below 0 degrees Fahrenheit and where snowfall is seemingly a daily occurrence. I've learned to deal with the weather, coping with a sort of begrudging patience instead of the pure hibernation of my primitive years.

Tonight's forecast calls for a low around 40 degrees, and that is to remain pretty consistent for the next week or two. However, judging by the past three years I've lived in Oneonta, NY, it'll probably be frigid by no later than Halloween. As I mentioned, that's all fine right now. But I am supposed to start throwing a baseball on November 10th, and continue on a very specific program from then on. The indoor facilities at school are outstanding, but they are shared by every other sport on campus. The scheduling of the facilities could become somewhat of a problem in the winter, and it's not exactly like I'd have the option to throw outside with three feet of snow on the ground and a daily high temperature of 3 degrees.

I guess I'll use that benevolent support group some more, and continue with my patience. As the old adage goes... I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. For now it's onto the next one: Tomorrow morning's physical therapy session; the single most important day in my recovery. Once that's done then it'll be onto Friday's therapy session; the single most important day in my recovery. And once that's done it'll be onto Monday's therapy session, the single most important day in my recovery. And so on, and so on...