Be Positive, Lose an Electron

I'm not going to try and be eloquent, here.

It's torn. My Anterior Cruciate Ligament (ACL) is torn. Again, times three.

Dr. Kirk Lewis' repair didn't hold. Now Dr. George Wade's repair didn't hold either.

Will Dr. Michael Holmstrom's surgical gift be the one to survive until the day I am laid to rest in the ground? (Or burned to ashes? Haven't yet decided which, but I think I have time).

Clearly the surgeons are not to blame, as they each gave me 3-4 years of high school and collegiate soccer. I even "medically retired" my career at Boise State a year early to prevent any more ACL tears.

Well, call me crazy, I decided to join an indoor coed league in Salt Lake because I didn't think the level of competition would be as intense. Just as previous tears have proven, the competitive nature of the game doesn't really matter.

All three tears have stemmed from planting and cutting and ZERO contact.

Hell, I can be shopping and tear my ACL! The sudden marked decrease in my walking speed can be seen as soon as I hit the sale rack at J. Crew and can cause a tear. It's true.

But this go around really hurts. Really devastates. Really disheartens.

The second play into the game late Thursday night, I came from behind and stuck my left leg out in front of a guy ready to release the ball. I planted with purposeful force and my weight plunged forward all onto my knee.

And snap.

I felt and heard the tear. Sounds like the loudest knuckle pop in the world.

The pain was unprecedented. And I knew exactly what I had done (even though I still paid the $25 copay to hear it from an MD's mouth).

As soon as my teammates helped me to the bench, I immediately began to feel physically nauseous and I began to hyperventilate. A combination of knowing the road that lie ahead of me and the actual response to the physical pain, I had to lie down to prevent throwing up or passing out.

For the next 40 minutes, I had to rest on the chipped paint bench and stew over what had just taken place. It felt unreal, like a bad dream that I couldn't wake up from. Or like I could somehow pretend that this actually didn't happen. Well unlike Michael J. Fox, I myself cannot go back in time and reverse unfortunate events. What's done was done.

As Dashboard Confessional's "Vindicated" played through the facilities speakers, I stared up at the high ceiling and cried.

And I cried some more.

I called my parents later that night (nearing midnight) and I cried even more.

I threw on some freshly washed undies and my Harvard Medical School t-shirt and hobbled into bed.

And I cried myself to sleep.

But like most things in life, time heals wounds and my emotional strength is already gearing up nicely to tackle a third surgery and the long arduous consequential recovery.

Tomorrow at 8:45am, I see Dr. Holmstrom at The Orthopedic Specialty Hospital (woohoo for SLC having a plethora of surgeons readily available) and the journey will begin.