After 6 months of
being injured, I was very restless. I was sick and l tired of sitting around
feeling useless. I still could not lift the fingers on my right hand. I
remember some nights just sitting there
thinking only one word, "Why?" I still could not grasp or understand
why this was all happening to me. Some would say that it was a blessing
because it slowed me down considerably. Others would say things like, "Bad
things happen to good people." No matter what anyone said it still was yet
to make sense to me. I felt I was way too young to be put on the backburner
like this. I had so much in life I wanted to do and really felt at this point
like I was unable to do anything.
After month 7,
therapy was over. The doctors had come to the conclusion that there would never
be an awakening of the nerves in my right arm that made my fingers lift.
Needless to say this revelation was like kicking me while I was down. It was
what it was, but something deep down kept me from accepting that the fight was
over and done.
About 3 or 4 days
later, I made a decision that this was more than enough for me to bear. I had
to overcome something before life overcame me. I got out some dumbbells and
started to lift light weights. I could still actually do this because it
required me to close my right hand instead of open it. I started trying to walk
my right hand fingers up the wall. Doing this forced my fingers to try to raise
on my right hand. Therapy was very light movements and I did not feel it really
pushed me at all.
About the third
day that I started exercising, a friend came over. He was like, "what are you doing trying to
exercise? You told me what the doctors said. Do you really think that is a good
idea? What if you hurt yourself?" As the questions of doubt started to
rise, I started laughing. I told him, "Man, I could not get hurt any worse
than the mental and physical pain I have been feeling all this time. I am
almost numb now. I would rather get hurt trying to do something about this then
to just give up." He nodded but I could tell that he thought I was crazy.
It was not too
long until I was addicted to trying to get in better shape. I was using hand
grips constantly. I started forcing some knee on the floor push-ups after the third week. After a month of effort, my right hand fingers would
still not raise. I would get angry. Sometimes I would just get sad and
discouraged. I had a tornado of all kinds of different emotions inside of me.
Out of anger I started pushing my workouts harder and harder. I was trying to stay positive, but even I was in question of what the end result would be.
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