To the telephone pole. And back.

My Samsung Smart Phone is really smart. It remembers what I said in previous texts, and it allows me to say the same thing in future texts, if need be. With all the love and concern I have been receiving as a result of my hip/leg injury and subsequent surgery, the Smart Phone allows me to spit out similar responses to multiple queries. “In a lot of pain. Mental and physical. Crying a lot. Trying to stay positive.” Those words have come up numerous times. Those of you reading this may have received those exact words on numerous occasions. Trust me when I say: All of that is very, very true. I’m not sure why God is putting through this, but there has to be a reason. I mean. Geez. I was just out for a run. Something I’ve done tens of thousands of times in my life. I know I’m clumsy. I fall a lot. I trip going out to check the friggin mailbox and to get the newspaper. But a fractured leg and major surgery. Really? Really? Who knows? Really. Who knows?

The nighttime is the worst. Sleeping is tough. Self-pity, self-doubt, dread, anxiety, fear – and mostly, mostly, the feeling that I am letting so many people in my life (especially family) down, by not BEING THERE for them – all of it comes crowding in, with a deep and throbbing pain being the underlying theme of it all, 24/7. In order to insert the screws, the surgeon said matter-of-factly that he had to cut through my IT band, quad and other soft tissue in and around my hip. No biggie, really. No biggie? These are things that ache all the time, and now they have been sliced up like deli meat? Come on, man! Yeah. I have pain meds. They don’t work that great. I hate taking them. I hate taking them. Medical professionals say I have to, in an effort to “stay ahead of the pain.” I get it. But I hate taking them. I know I have to take them. I hate taking them.

The physical therapist came yesterday and then returned again today. She has me up on the crutches, putting a little weight on the bad leg. Just a little. She wants me to walk normally on it, heel-toe. My “normal” walk is so ginger and slow anyway, so this isn’t much different. Just with crutches. She took me outside. Fresh air. I went to the telephone pole in front of my next door neighbor’s house. And back. Tried it again. It hurt. She said it’s OK. Let pain be my guide. Pain is always my guide, but I usually circumvent it. Now, I have to listen. I have to push. But not too hard. I have to not feel sorry for myself. Easier said than done. Today, I went to the next telephone pole. And back. I wanted to do more. She said not today. Not to push it.

It looks like I am redshirting this season. Can a coach redshirt? I guess we’ll find out now, won’t we? Maybe I’ll hobble around on crutches a bit, at practices, at meets. I dunno. I cannot imagine that right now. We’ll see what the next minute brings. No self-pity. That’s the goal. I’m trying. Not succeeding. But trying. There is so much I want to say and so much I need to do. It will have to be put on hold, while my body heals.  There have been so many sources of strength and love, all of them appreciated more than you can know. I write through the fog of pain, physical and mental. The next telephone pole awaits.