The Road Back

The road to excellence has no finish line.

Mediocrity, however, is a clearly defined destination. I spent the majority of my life there until August, when things stopped being underwhelmingly average and started being overwhelmingly bad. My appendix exploded, I got a serious intestinal infection called c. diff, I had wrist surgery, and I got c. diff again. Anything worth almost dying from is worth almost dying from twice, especially if it lets me work from home for an extra week. I couldn’t repeat the exploding appendix trick since I only had one of those, but bad bacteria in my digestive tract are a dime a dozen—or a dime a trillion if anyone bothered to count. As for my wrist, I had my pisiform bone removed, but I still have one in my other hand. I’ll save that surgery for a rainy day just in case.

For me, “average” is no longer a pejorative; it’s aspirational. I’d say I’m fighting to get back to normal, but that implies I could ever call myself that. My warped version of it will have to be close enough. As discouraging as the process has been, I’ve come a long way. After my appendectomy, I could barely walk. I’d say I was as weak as a kitten, but kittens are getting pretty strong these days. Mittens should lay off the juice. Since then, I’ve been making progress every day. The tube is out of my side, and the bandages are off my wrist. I even got back to the gym. It felt like there was nothing that could stop me. Well, nothing except literally anything. And wouldn’t you know it, that’s when anything decided to strike.

I found myself at immediate care for the third time in two months—although technically the first visit shouldn’t count. That time, the staff there didn’t actually treat me. They just left me in the waiting room in septic shock until I gave up and drove myself to the emergency room. That’s one way to clear out the lobby. This time, I stuck it out, so the nurse practitioner had to see me. I almost wish she hadn’t. The diagnosis she gave me was the last thing I wanted to hear.