I'm sitting in the waiting room, waiting for my name to be called, so that I can make my way back to radiology. I've made it just in time for my appointment; I had to make a stop before I left because the team had running this morning, so I showed up for a while, even though I couldn't participate. That's why I'm here: the pain's finally become too much to ignore any longer. I scheduled this appointment to be in the early morning hours so I won't have to miss my early morning class; turns out, it won't matter. I'll be sitting in this building for almost 3 hours getting x-rays, being checked by the doctor, and scheduling more appointments.
How do you crush an athlete's dreams? You tell them that they can't play the sport they love.
The doctor walked into the exam room with an air of confidence, which relaxed me. He just looked at the x-rays that were taken and he had a smile on his face-- good news, right? He made the socially required small talk that we've all grown accustomed to while at a doctor's office, and I answered his questions accordingly. I thought to myself, "this is great! He'll give me some exercises to do and I'll be back on the field in no time." Then he drops the bomb. He pulls up the images of my x-ray, and while they show no signs of a broken bone, he tells me it's still not good. He pokes and prods at me, trying to get a better idea of what is happening and what's wrong. He tells me my problem is one of two things, but that most likely it's the option that will keep me off the field longer.
He puts me in a walking boot and schedules an MRI to be sure the problem isn't something else, and after a few more hours of tracking down insurance coverage and finding times for my next appointments, I'm sent on my way. I drive myself to class, then to the MRI, then back to campus. As I'm faced with figuring out how I'll make up the work from the two classes I've ended up missing because of these appointments, it hits me. One month. He told me that the recovery would take at least one month before I could get back on the field. Back to my sport. Back to my life.
Yes, I know I sound like a whiny, privileged little athlete who hasn't gotten her way, but the truth is that my sport is my life. I've dedicated a lot of years to it; almost 90% of the time I've been here on earth. I've gone through literal blood, sweat, and tears to play this sport. On top of it all, I've just survived preseason: arguably the hardest week for any athlete. I made it through three-a-days, I put in the work. Now, before I can even try to reap the reward, I'm stuck on the bench, whether that's where my coach wants me or not.
A month to some people may not sound like a long time, but to me, it's forever. It's an entire month missed of playing the sport that I love. A month missed of playing the game with new and old teammates. A month gone where I'm stuck watching from the sidelines during every moment, every defeat, every celebration. Instead of embracing those moments with my teammates on the field, I will be watching them happen from the other side of the line. I started my freshman season out with an injury, but was able to play by the time the first game rolled around. I thought this year would be different, and it is, only this injury has the potential to keep me from playing in several games.
I'm devastated. I've been an emotional wreck all day long, and there's nothing I can do or tell myself to make it better. At least if I was healthy and on the bench I would know that there's a reason for it, and that it could be changed by working harder or playing smarter, but that option has now been taken from me. Whether I like it or not, I'm now on the injured list, and it's the last place I want to be.
