Wake Up Call
Lying rather uncomfortably on the examination table while facing the painfully bright ceiling lights, I fidgeted nervously, desperately trying to ignore the gloominess of the situation. I attempted to focus on staying warm in the bitterly cold room, but the events of just a few days prior kept running through my head, the intense pain, my overwhelming fear, and the frantic scrambling of surgeons and nurses in the Emergency Room. The doctors told me I have torn my collateral ligament stage 1. Briefly, I now smiled thinking about the innocence of my response to the news: “So I have to wear a brace now when I play soccer?”
Waiting for the doctor now, I became unbearably impatient. I had waited for 5 days to find out whether or not I would be cleared to play soccer again, but the thought of waiting another five minutes seemed impossible. Then Dr. Victor entered the room. He was friendly, but perceptibly uncomfortable, almost sad. The question remained unasked and unanswered as we went through the standard procedures of a physical and I could tell that I had cleared all of the tests. The time had finally come for him to tell me whether or not I could play, his eyes focused on his clipboard for a moment, and he then lifted his head, frowning. He spoke slowly and softly, but still rather matter-of-factually, as he told me that I would have to wait between 1.5–2 months at least before I could return to soccer, and he cant guarantee I would be able to return back to normal potential. Not only his words sent a shock-wave through my body, but has implanted that fear of once I return I would have to be cautious otherwise I would be over for good next time.
The realization sunk in immediately. I wasn’t surprised, or at least I shouldn’t have been, but that did not make the order any easier. I refuted the idea wholeheartedly, and for few weeks after I was released, I continued to condition with my soccer teammates in hopes of returning faster then expected and overcome the challenges. I woke up every morning at five to be at the gym by six for recovery routine. Even though I was ashamed to wear my knee brace, I wore it devotedly, with some sort of hope that the more I wore it, the quicker and better it would heal the torn ligaments. At night, I slept slowly practicing the running motion against the mattress in the hopes of not wasting a single minute just to be able to get back on pitch and running again, hoping that i would wake up for it to be all a dream. I was determined to play again.
Nonetheless, in the end, just as the doctor ordered, I never managed to play until I went through 3 months of recovery, day in and day out regretting the collision where this injury risen from, and doubting myself. After several nights in a row of coming home from conditioning barely able to walk, I finally gave in, and decided to take it easy to ensure full recovery. For a while, giving up felt like an admittance of defeat rather than the acceptance of a truth that should have been painfully obvious, but over time, I realized that like most of the difficult decisions I have made and will have to make, life would go on. Rather than focus on what was undeniably unattainable, I understood that even though this particular option was no longer open to me, I had countless other choices to make in the long run and the future, especially returning was just a matter of time and I just needed to be patient. Lastly, it became apparent for me to not take what I got now for granted.
