The Grandest

After my last trip to the neurosurgeon’s office, things have been a little less bleak.

The surgeon I was referred for examination was not my original surgeon; in fact, he seems to be the exact opposite from my ultra conservative operating surgeon from back home. Still, the news was good and I have been cleared for way more physical activity than I imagined.

Although I must say, after my most recent examination, the new doctor lost a scosche of credibility after saying he would “start Peyton Manning.”

Nevertheless, I trust his judgment when he says I can do “whatever I want,” although that, again, seems overly carefree. I don’t know if I could take a roundhouse to the neck, but I may feel a little more comfortable playing volleyball and running, which I have been progressing back into.

In fact, I ran a mile this week for only the second time since my injury and did it under six-and-a-half minutes. Beat that, Usain Bolt.

Apparently, he already has.

But to achieve this mile high obstacle of a mile long finish is a great mental encourager. Living less like a patient helps to feel less like a patient, which is the best feeling in four long months.

From the beginning I knew the mental battle would end up taking precedent over the physical battle; my life-long struggles with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder rarely make even small things issues seem unlike a catastrophic disaster.

Surely this is why I neurotically relate more with Peyton Manning than Usain Bolt. I’m not saying I’m the fastest man alive, but I’m also not saying I’m sidelined with a neck injury—at least anymore.

Being able to run, play basketball, volleyball and lift weights (not just Thera-Bands) has done more for me mentally than physically by an infinite degree.

The other end of the spectrum from me contains a man who suffered a much worse accident, fracturing two vertebras and significant spinal cord injury. It happened on the football field, and the man, Eric LeGrand, was left paralyzed from the neck down after making a tackle on the already NFL-concerned kick-off.

However, LeGrand never made it to the NFL. He went down while playing for Rutgers. But like I said, opposite from me, he only went down in one dimension—physically.

“I've had low moments, but I can probably count them on one hand,” is an attitude that is unshakable, an attitude I can’t relate to.

But LeGrand is living it. His progress is unbelievable and his character is undeniable.

And LeGrand holds no grudges.

He still backs the kick-off in football, even with the NFL making several new controversial adjustments to that part of the game for this very reason. He has become very close to the Army football team, whom of which he Rutgers was playing that day, and was even upset to hear of a broken collar bone suffered from the man on other end of the hit that ended his playing days.

Still enrolled and taking classes through Skype at Rutgers, LeGrand hasn’t let anything within his own control change.

LeGrand has shown me that there is another disparity between Peyton Manning and Usain Bolt.

The disparity is Eric LeGrand. The difference is a mental edge that of which I envy to the highest degree.

LeGrand’s mentality not only is a savior to himself, but those who also know his story.

Stay Strong

Anthony Conner, cornerback for the University of Louisville football team, broke his neck yesterday (Oct. 21) during a tackle made against a Rutgers ball carrier.

He was not paralyzed, but his football career is over. Conner is a senior and is said to be well liked by his teammates. Louisville won the game 14-16.

Scars Not Scarves

Being scarred for life has been made into too much of a negative thing—physically scarred, of course.

Aesthetically, they may not be the prettiest addition to a palette of skin, but they are more than just an alteration of appearance.

After my surgery, one of the most common conversational pieces has been my scars. After all, they are the only visual cues to a story most want to hear.

However, after the story of the scars is over and the once upon-a-time concludes with a fairy tale ending, more often than not, I am told about all the different remedies and methods of fading away these leftover lines.

One thought always comes to mind: why?

There are more than enough reasons for me to hold onto my souvenirs; I had no other choice but to exit through the gift shop.

I share a past with a small amount of people, but one thing is true of all of us—identity. I am sure the day will come when a path crossed with another survivor takes its course, and a common experience can finally be heard.

I have been lucky enough to have similar experiences already while in a neck brace. At a beach volleyball tournament this summer, several strangers giving sentiments such as, “good luck” or “I’m sorry” approached me. My favorite was “F*** necks, who needs ‘em?” But one really got made an impression in me; a lady considering reconstructive surgery of her cervical spine telling me I was an inspiration for her to move ahead and do it. The whole day was pretty empowering to say the least.

But the brace is off now, and I don’t want to give that kind of ability up. I’ve been told it’s a miracle of a situation, but really—it isn’t, and I want to share that with others if it helps.

Besides, it may get me less dirty looks at Ikea when my tiny girlfriend is doing all the dirty work, and her giant boyfriend is instructing, “lift with your legs.”

There is no doubt that it will save a buck or two on future Halloween costumes as well.

Consequently, I definitely appear more dangerous now—daring even, which is the exact antonym of what I actually am. The scar of a knife slicing your neck provides ample street credibility in dark alleys, shady street corners and parks after hours. I look a little bit more like I belong.

My scars may also lead airport security to a more understanding mindset while I set off their metal detectors for the rest of my flying days.

But even more than these simple reasons of vanity and jester, my two scars are a badge of pride and a symbol of struggle—of the past, present and future—that have resulted from an injury that made me a “walking miracle.”

It is often that after a life-altering incident impacts someone deeply, a tattoo becomes a formality of displaying it on body.

For me, that tattoo is not made from ink or made in a colorful, buzzing room. It is made in a white, unwelcoming space from a cold scalpel and a hand more skilled than an artist’s.

And just like a tattoo, these scars aren’t going anywhere.

I’m okay with that.