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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