The Opportunity To Return
As featured in Issue#23 of LikeTheWind magazine.
The lights were dimmed but still provoked a squint, a groaning grimace as the room gradually came into focus. Beliderment, an overwhelming thirst, then the bolt of anxious worry - knowing only the sketchy specifics of the hours past. It was a familiar feeling, yet this one wasn’t preceded by fifteen pints of overpriced cider the night before.
The other notable difference was the pounding emanating not from within my cranium, but shoulders - an obscure dense throbbing reverberation, a hangover of the upper torso. A “result of the insufflated carbon dioxide”, as if I’m to know what this means. The repetitive tones of the monitor provide the soundtrack following my first encounter with a general anaesthetic - how I found myself in such a precarious situation was greatly detailed a couple of issues back, but for the unenlightened I offer a somewhat abbreviated narrative;
Luminous flashing warning signs of injury are narcissitically ignored to run a second marathon in as many weeks - a minor niggle manifesting to an issue of much greater severity. An infuriating, tear inducing saga ensues, starring hapless physios, GPs, consultants and surgeons - each either passing the buck or offering false diagnosis. Months, eventually thirteen, pass without running, not a single shoestring tied - frustration skyrockets and general emotional well-being takes a nosedive.
Only when matters are taken into one’s own hands and a renowned surgeon takes just four minutes (at a cost of £250) to provide an accurate analysis and sole treatment option, do I later find myself sporting a hospital gown - necessary attire for the recipient of a ‘Bilateral Groin Reconstruction and a Bilateral Adductor Longus Release’. In layman’s terms, my groin was knackered and it took a decent quack to fix it.
The endorsements for the surgeon were strong, as were the testimonials adorning his glossy website, an abundance of household sporting names declaring gratitude to the professor following their prompt return to athletic dominance. Given the strength and calibre of the references, the empathy and validation received during consultation, and the overall, overwhelming indignation of the entire episode, the choice was swiftly made to pursue his suggested path of treatment.
The aspects of particular life events that live strongest in the mind are peculiar - medical procedures being no exception. The strongest recollections from my sole encounter with invasive surgery are not ones of fear or anxiety - sentiments I’d imagine to be synonymous with a significant undertaking, nor did they involve the kindly bed manner of a particular practitioner, nor any physical feature of my surroundings. No, my most vivid memories involve being starving and unable to take a piss.
Meeting with the surgeon at his Leicestershire facility at 8am, the car crept from the drive in darkness, the two hour journey to the hospital one of hope and anticipation for a successful outcome, whilst simultaneously cursing my naivety for assuming that leaving at such a time would exempt me from the sheer imbecility of the British driving public. Melodramatic it may sound, but given the incessant onslaught of frustration, resentment and disconcertion the injury had dealt, it felt as though I was going to Leicester to get my life back.
The Professor explained the intricacies of procedure and how, whilst the success rate was substantially positive at 98%, there was no cast-iron guarantee the surgery would actually rectify the issue. It was then that he also declared he’d be performing eight other such operations that afternoon, and, as I was an overnight patient, I was back of the que. Nil-by-mouth since 6am, I was estimated to be in theatre by 4pm.
Feeding hour would be over well before I was due out of theatre, prompting a nurse to request my culinary choices which, she explained, I’d receive upon arrival back on the ward. “Everything” was the response, waving my hand over the extensive menu, perfectly reasonable given an appetite which for years has proved insatiable. Whilst my 5ft 7in frame may sit below the national average of an adult male, I suspect my rapacious hunger to be anything but. Running, marathon training in particular, the prime culprit for my perpetual ravenous state - my daughter has spent much of her eleven years highly amused by the sheer volume of fare I’m able to put away, having never seen me leave so much as a morsel.
Unfortunately for my stomach, the 4pm estimate was somewhat inaccurate. I was wheeled down to theatre at 7pm, woken an hour later to that dull ache in the shoulders, then deposited back in my room at 9pm, entranced in some peculiar self-pitying, self-perceived state of famine. Whether or not the operation was a success was of little interest, an afterthought in comparison to the protest rumbling from my digestive organ. Within minutes a grand feast lay presented before me, my order fulfilled to the nth degree.
Any other day would have seen a feeding frenzy akin to that of rabid dogs rounding on their prey, an eclipse of the Regents Banquet of 1817, the kitchen would cry out for reinforcements. Unfortunately, today wasn’t any other day.
Gathering the untouched china, a porter exchanged pleasantries but was doubtlessly judging me with the same disdain I have of the eyes-bigger-than-your-belly guests at an all-inclusive resort. The surgery had rendered me incapable, the consumption of a mere mouthful proving beyond means . I was no better than the sunburnt oafs in the Costa Del Sol - dishes piled high, zero intention of finishing the lot, purely because their wristband provides the authority to do so. My shame was of great amusement to my wife - ‘Billy Big-Bollocks’ being her taunt of choice as a defeated stare into the middle distance encapsulated my devastation.
Yet if the inability to fulfill my glutinous boast proved shameful, it was soon overshadowed by further mortification when attempting to answer the call of nature - my first post-surgery effort to pass water, chaperoned by mandatory supervision.
I consider the ‘pinnacle’ of my running ‘career’ (both laughable terms given my gross ineptitude at a sport in which I’ve so heavily invested) to have taken place in a Massachusetts monsoon in the Spring of 2015, finally breaking three hours at the Boston Marathon. Not a particularly impressive feat in the grand scheme of things, yet relatively it meant the world. Such gratification brought with it an air of invincibility that day.
Running giveth, running taketh away.
‘Pinnacle’ and ‘Invincible’ were not the words that came to mind whilst having two middle-aged women standing over me, making small talk (excuse the pun) whilst I agonisingly, and slowly, failed to urinate. The pressure to produce proved too great.
The subsequent weeks saw little improvement. The poster boy of the procedure, splashed atop the professors’ homepage, waxed lyrical of his involvement in a top-flight Premier League fixture a mere four days after the very same procedure I’d undergone. Unfortunately, I’m neither a professional athlete nor engulfed by an eager legion of rehabilitation experts - physiotherapists and conditioning gurus under pressured instruction to ensure a rapid return on their employers investment. There was little illusion my recovery would progress at the same rate. Four days? Four weeks later my genitals still resembled a paint-by-numbers, such was the extent of the bruising.
A prompt return to fitness was of zero urgency to anyone but myself, and why would it be any different? Despite the insecurity of what others may think, the reality is that no-one else could care less. The only other party directly concerned by my absence from running was my unfortunate family, made to endure months of ceaseless moaning, self-pity and daily fluctuations in emotion.
To his credit, the professor returned my calls and answered emails, a far cry from other surgeons with whom I’d had a consultation - seemingly elusive, whimsical figures, hidden behind an impenetrable barrier of curt receptionists. One would assume I’d requested an audience in the White House given the hilarity with which one secretary addressed my request to ask some follow-up questions.
Eight weeks passed but the pain persisted, and as the bruising began to subside, the prospect of a surgical failure became a very realistic fear. Every other feasible avenue of treatment had reached exhaustion in the past twelve months, surgery the only remaining option - I was a broken Butch Cassidy and the fat lady was warming up in the Last Chance Saloon.
The Professor was unwavering in his faith, at least the one he conveyed to me - “some take more time than others to heal”, and given my ludicrous inability to recover quickly from more minor ailments, it was a perfectly feasible justification. During this time a sizeable bulge at the bottom of my abdomen presented itself - excessive inflammation protruding from the site of the repair. It’s size comparable to a golf ball on some days, a cricket ball on others, it was established to be the source of my enduring discomfort, the swelling significantly delaying the healing process.
Another early-morning jaunt down the A1 concluded with repeated insertions of sizeable needles to the spherical monstrosity to drain the surplus fluid. Such was the extent of the inflammation, it took four syringes with barrels the girth of a Smarties tube to extract the bloody, concentrated edema. An experience I wish not to repeat in a hurry.
Yet immediately, unbelievably, implausibly, it felt a little better. It was advised to delay any form of steady ‘test’ jog by a week, but caution, trepidation and outright fear saw a further fortnight pass until I anxiously stepped from the porch at 5am into the April humidity - there’d been too many a dashed hope and false dawn to assume I was fixed, that this day would be the new beginning so dearly desired.
Distinguishing between the discomfort of injury and the vast decline of physical fitness presented as great a challenge as the wheezing, lumberous endeavour itself - 3 minutes of walking interspersed with 30 seconds of cautious, tentative jogging, a mere fraction faster than a shuffle. The discomfort still lingered but had diminished substantially in intensity. Weeks passed, the beacon of discomfort subsiding down to a flicker, and the periods of running eventually exceeded those of walking.
Unlike the ridiculous rationale that led to the initial injury, common sense prevailed and stood at the forefront of running’s return, building from scratch with daily psychological reminders of the past year keeping the leash firmly buckled for the first three months. However, the highly conservative pace at which each run progressed was rarely down to choice, the sensation of being back proving bitter sweet - a quiet glow of relief colliding with the abhorrent realisation of how unfit I was - any burst of effort generated a sound akin to that of a distressed walrus. Even had I wished to do so, I couldn't have sustained anything faster. It was a start, but the climb back would be very steep, and very long indeed.
I recently read a quote which accurately captured the rebirth of those first weeks - “We are products of our past, but we don’t have to be prisoners of it”. Sustaining the damage was a direct consequence of egotistical stupidity - a punishment of several incapacitated weeks would have sufficied. Instead I found myself an inmate - wrongly detained in a correctional facility of injury. The sanction for a careless ignorance disproportionately outweighed the crime, my incarceration was unjust. Yet the sentence stood - internal pleas to any figurative jury falling on deaf ears.
But the time had been served and the dues paid - those first weeks back on my feet acting as parole - keep on the straight and narrow (slow and steady) or it’ll be back to the slammer for you young man. A promise to oneself not to reoffend acts as a perpetual reminder to ease off should things not feel quite right.
The weeks turned to months, miles steadily climbed and the long desired satisfaction of routine was slowly reestablished. Some elements proved tougher than others - my bodyclock’s reluctance to readjust to 4am alarms proving particularly burdensome, but for the majority - the simple chance to readapt was gratifyingly harmonious. The small victory of scribing in the training diary - seeing something other than ‘rest’ or ‘injured’ in ink proving somewhat of a novelty. Waving at the old dear walking her dog in the dark each morning, she’d be forgiven for assuming we’d moved away, and once more a riverside trot unfolds in the majestic early morning mist, nature's promise the day ahead will see clear skies.
Whilst I was essentially again a newbie to the sport, any pace having long since departed, the ability to grind out the long slog appeared intact, albeit in a somewhat diminished, flawed capacity. Endurance, it seems, doesn’t easily forget. Any runner having faced a lay-off will speak of their vast loss in conditioning, how they’ve lost a fraction from their previous best. At the time of writing I’ve battled to scrape my 5K back to within 37 seconds - it may as well be an hour, but it’s an hour closer than yesterday. I originally envisaged every small step forwards would be met with elation, but the simmering sentiment of frustration, that for the last 13 months held a clasp so tight, is instead replaced with one of calm and contentment. For now, just getting out of the door is enough.
In truth, it was never about the running. Running just provided the platform. But from that platform the cherished gifts of confidence, self esteem and positivity were back within reach. This elevated position thus allowing a view of a more profound aspect, the real reward of rehabilitation and refusal to surrender - the triumphant reclaiming of identity, an integrity built on graft and persistence right back where it should be.
The injury could well return and running snatched away once more. There’ll be other pitfalls. But right now, the opportunity is there, and though with trepidation, it is being firmly grasped with both hands.
