Why

Why

I’m not sure what surgery I was recovering from; maybe it was one of my bicep repairs, one of my elbows, one of my wrists, or maybe it was when one of my hands was pinned. I don’t remember because I started having surgeries back in the good ol’ days when opioids weren’t the fucking devil and doctors prescribed them when things actually hurt. That being said, these pills do make my memory a little fuzzy.

​My mom appeared next to my bed in the recovery room. She asked how I felt and I replied something like “I feel like I’ve been born again. I can’t wait to see if their job holds up.” The job being whatever they fixed. With a concerned shoulder grab, she asked me why I keep doing this to myself. She asked me what if I tear something up so bad they can’t fix it or what if next time it’s a broken back or both? I think I responded something like “what if the queen had balls” or something similarly crass that I’m sure she was proud of me for saying. Opioid haze not withstanding, we talked again later as suggested by the recovery room nurse, i.e. no big decisions, purchases, or life altering promises for 24 hours at least. 

When we did talk, it was about 2 to 3 days post-op. I was propped up in bed and she asked if we could finish our conversation. I said “sure” since I couldn’t get up, or find my car keys, or even drive anyway. She started with the “what if‘s” and “how comes”. I politely stopped her. 

“It’s what I do. It’s who I am. It’s how I maintain my sanity. It’s how I contribute. It’s how I honor those who taught me. Quite simply, it’s just my life. I know of no other way to be and I wouldn’t change any of it. Not one injury. Not one surgery. Not one setback. Not one misstep. They’ve all played a part in the story that I wrote. And every one of them is just as valuable as the next.”

She smiled and kissed my cheek. “Your dad would be proud.” And with that she walked out.