In the words of the immortal Phil Collins, I am “not dead yet.”
If you know, or if you don’t; If you care, or if you don’t;
this is my story. #ControlYourNarrative.I was recently hospitalized with a pretty severe infection.
To maintain some HIPPA rights, basically two times this year I found myself infected post covid. Once in my foot, stemming from a wound from a torn toe tendon procedure (clarity for all those that tried to cancel my toe on social media a few months ago) and another from a cut suffered during a match, where maybe a wrestling ring canvas isn’t the most sanitary place to be.Both times they were treated with antibiotics. Both times I missed no activity and continued my tireless efforts of conquest in the physical, mental, and spiritual realms.A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a swelling developing in my arm, and in other areas of my body. Paying it very little attention while using bro-science and internet diagnosis, I continued my daily missions and the overwhelming burdens I place upon myself in training, performing, business, and creative endeavors. When I thought about getting it looked at professionally, another thing would come up that I’d give priority. This repeated and I lived life normally, consistently going, no rest. Finally, after an attempt at some athletic based therapy, my arm became a gigantic, swollen, horrifying, ungodly, painful atrocity and I went to the ER. Next thing I knew, words like cellulitis, staph, and stenosis were thrown around, I was being pumped full of fluids, antibiotics, and morphine, and was in an ambulance to my STAYCATION DESTINATION, Advent Health Downtown Orlando.
The next 10 days or so became a blur. I shut down completely physically and mentally. Though they were beyond appreciated, I tuned out the concerns and well wishes of both family and friends. I was so lethargic I went days without bathing and other general hygiene. Ambidextrous wiping is not my strong suit. The pain was so immense I would count down the minutes till my next scheduled morphine dose. I told the same story to different teams of orderlies, nurses, residents, and doctors, with no clarity on what the diagnosis or treatment were. While it would have been a great time to READ, WRITE or BINGE WATCH, words looked like hieroglyphics and blue light devices hurt my head to such an extent that I could only close my eyes and listen to whatever was on TNT (ENDGAME was on twice and had me vicariously living through Fat Thor. I also really got into Charmed reruns btw.)
I’d be thankful for my visitors communicating my status to the outside world (my mother especially, thank you FLBFF) and delivering me Firehouse Subs, Muddy Buddy Chex Mix, and Chicken Parm, but I was unable to have a fully engaging conversation with them. I bribed nurses with chicken nuggets if they could orchestrate a door dash pick up for me in the confusing layout of the hospital. I watched an orderly snap and threaten my nurse practitioner David, and suddenly found myself being grilled by the hospital administration (“David was doing everything he could to help me, the other guy was a complete asshole, and if I wasn’t attached to all these tubes and had two working arms I’d have fought him for David’s honor.”) I’d get angry at all the precious time being wasted, while there was, is, so much to be done, but at the same time I just stopped caring and began to reiterate a very toxic phrase I used in another dark time of my life. “Nothing Matters.”
I wanted to be left alone in desolation. Solitude.
And I wanted to sleep.
If there was one benefit to it all, I would sleep.
This is not a special case, as anyone who’s had or had family dealing with health issues (which is everyone) has been through this in one way or another, but this was my case. It was a reminder of both a childhood spent very ill, and a career spent where when things were very promising, began to reach an apex, and accomplishments being achieved I would drasticly be shattered with catastrophic injuries (torn ligaments, tendons, concussions etc.) Completely unforeseen. Completely unnecessary.
Story of my life. #TheNarrative
But now I am home. To “heal.” To “rest.” This is not easy. I am not back, not even close. This is difficult to accept. I am lacking the motivation, the drive, the grind, “the churn.” This isn’t who I am.
Am I writing this as maybe an attempt to find it?Am I looking to my own words for a reminder of who I am? Control. Freedom. Purpose.Is this even a public blog? Is this a journal entry for myself? Is this worth even writing or reading?
Many more have been through far worse, through way harder. Hell, I have. Shut up. Deal with it. Move forward.I am reminding myself of a quote, maybe you’ll find something in it.“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing, the last of human freedoms. To choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”