A Long Road of Bandages and Bruises

The smell of a doctor’s office filled my lungs as I entered the golden doors at the clinic. I do not want to be here at all. After five months of pain and two failed attempts at physical therapy, it is my “Judgment Day” on my shoulder. This visit decides if I play sports my sophomore year or not. As I sit in the room, waiting to see the doctor, I think of all the negative outcomes that are liable to happen. I also think about how many times I have sat in this office, and the long road I came from.

            It was my freshman year, and baseball tryouts were in about three weeks. My confidence is at an all time low due to our terrible football season. I was positive I would not make the team, so I saw no reason to try out. I mean, why would you set yourself up for disappointment? However, one of my friends signed me up so I thought I would give it a shot. After a not so bad tryout, I made the team.

            After a miserable freshman season of baseball, summer baseball came. I wanted to quit baseball after the first game of the season, but my dad would not let me! Now, I have to go through a whole summer of this. I don’t even play! I don’t even know if I like baseball anymore. I just want to play football. Right then I knew the only thing that was going to get me through summer baseball was the thought of football in the fall.

            It is our fourth game of our summer season, and, as usual, I am not playing. I was pinch running for our catcher, however. It was not much at all. But it was one of the few things I excelled in. I took pride in running those bases. I was like a bird in open air. It just felt natural to me. It did not take long for our catcher to get on base. Now it was my chance to shine! I stepped on first, got my signal, and was ready to go. I take my two-step lead and get ready to steal, but the pitcher caught me off guard. He throws the ball over to first and I dive back quickly with my right arm. I hear that I am safe, but something is wrong. I heard a pop when I dove back nut I did not know what it was. I roll over to my side to get up when all of a sudden I am overwhelmed with pain in my right shoulder. It feels like somebody just hit my shoulder with a sledgehammer. After I look at my shoulder, which had sunk into my chest, I blacked out.

            I wake up with a needle in my wrist, my arm in a sling, and three strangers in white coats in a room.

“What am I doing here?” I asked them.

“You are at the hospital, you have a grade two separated shoulder, and we had to put you to sleep to get it back in.” One of the doctors replied.

            They checked me for side effects of the painkillers I was given and then they left the room. Shortly after the left, my mom came in saying we could leave whenever I was ready. I said I was ready. On the way out I stopped one of the doctors and asked how long would I be out for this type of injury. He told me about three weeks, but I needed to see a specialist just in case.

            A week had gone by, I was still wearing a sling and we had scheduled a doctor’s appointment. I thought the doctor’s appointment was a complete waste of time. If one doctor said I only needed three weeks, why should I listen to another one? Nevertheless, just to be safe my parents made me go to the doctor. I sit down in the doctors office and he starts asking me what hurts, what doesn’t hurt, and when does it hurt. After what seemed like an eternity, he concluded that this was more than just a dislocated shoulder. He thinks I tore my rotator cuff and my labrum. Both injuries are very likely to end my high school career of any sports.

            Three months after my injury and one moth of therapy later, I was in his doctor’s office again. This is the day he supposed to clear my to start back in sports. This is the only time I will ever be happy in a doctor’s office I thought to myself as I walked to his office. We went through the same routine. He asked me what hurts, what doesn’t hurt, and when it hurts. He says I can start lifting weights but I will have to sit out my sophomore year of football. I’m sad but grateful that its only one year.

            I’m sitting in the waiting room for what seems like the one hundredth time with my dad. The last time we were here, we received good news. This time will be different. I had dislocated my shoulder again yesterday. However, it had popped back in. but it still hurt extremely bad. I knew I had done something so my dad scheduled another appointment. So here I am. He walks in, disappointed to see me. He goes through the same routine. He asked me what hurts, what doesn’t hurt, and when it hurts. He thinks another month of physical therapy will work. But if it does not, surgery is the next option.

            The journey I had to go through to get here was a wild one. I had been to the doctor six times in the past five months. This visit would not be my last, and I know it. They call my name to enter the doctors office so he can make the final judgment on my shoulder. As I am walking in, I can already picture him saying: “What hurts? What doesn’t hurt? When does it hurt?”