Going Under

It's happening so fast. I'm excited and nervous all at the same time. Actually, scratch that. I'm all nerves. My dad has been under the knife over a dozen times and reassures me everything will be okay. But this is my first. How am I supposed to trust this stranger, scope in hand, with intensions of digging around in the flesh within my knee? Then again, I'd rather not be a Gimp for the rest of my life- I'm only 10.

It's finally time. As the nurses pry me from my parents, I have one last condition. The oversized stuffed dog I had brought, resembling our Chocolate Lab, Buddy, must be allowed to go into surgery with me. My mom's surprised they actually let me take him, but is happy he will make me more comfortable during this procedure. I roll into the operating room, not sure what to expect. But just like in the movies, I am engulfed by white. White floors, white walls, white cielings. The doctors arrive, adding drops of color that I find somewhat calming.

As they prepare me for the surgery, I cling tight to Buddy. A mask is placed over my nose and mouth, and I am told to count backwards from 10. The last number I remember saying out loud was '6' and was told later that I indeed didn't make it any further. The next thing I know, I wake up in the recovery room, feeling like hell under the pain medications I was still loopy on. Anxious to see my parents, but unable to keep my eyes open, I fall asleep on the way back from the recovery room.

About an hour later, I wake up in pain. As I open my eyes, I immediately start to cry from being overwhelmed with the pain, not really sure how else to react. I start to think about the recovery time- 6 weeks on cruches, my entire summer. Not to mention the 4 weeks of physical therapy that are to follow. That means no running, no jumping. Which also means no softball. Taking the entire summer off from my sport would be a first, but I am left with no choice. Work on recovering now, so I can be playing sooner rather than later. My doctor assures me that if I worked hard on my exercises and showed strong progress, I could be back on the field sooner than I knew. As a 10 year-old, even that sounded like a ways away, but I was hopeful and itching to get going on physical therapy. And sure enough, after about 8 weeks, I was back in the game.