On the Couch

What Made Me Think This Would Be So Easy?

I thought for sure that I would get onto this thing (Blogger, that is) before now. Well, it is not so comfortable laying in bed all day, or the couch for that matter. I really think that the worst part of surgery is dealing with the aches that go along with sitting/laying all day.

When I was in the recovery room, the nurse said that she was going to do a femoral nerve block. This is where they shoot some substance into the big nerve in my leg. I was warned that I would not be able to feel the leg for two days, and that possible nerve damage may result. I said, while under morphine mind and body, "fuck that. Just give me back-up drugs. I'll be fine."

I went to Goddess LeighAnn's house and I was fine. I stayed with her for the weekend, because I live on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. LeighAnn lives near the hospital and has everything on one floor. She instantly became the nurse from heaven. The only issue was getting from the car to the apartment. I got on those crutches, and did my best, zig-zagging along the sidewalks. Then it started: "blah". I puked all over the sidewalk. LeighAnn and Larry (another angel) told me to stop. I thought, 'If I stop I will never get to the apartment.' So I kept on, kept on barfing onto the sidewalk while hobling along on my crutches. As soon as I got inside, I hit the bed and slept all day and night.

The next day I slept.

Sunday, I moved to the couch and slept. I tried to watch "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days", and slept. It was no use, I was out of it. Plus, my head hurt much worse than my leg. The combination of no food, anethesia, and percocets do not make for a wonderful night (contrary to what one may imagine).

Is this going to be the hell that I think it is?

I am a rugby player, and I assume, from time to time, that a rugby player gets injured. Well, it has happened to me twice now, both times the same knee. The first time was two years ago. I was at practice and we were scrimmaging (the spelling is going to be horrible on this blog, plus, I do not even know if I spelled that correctly to even need to apologize for it). I was running after this little guy, he cut right, I cut right, but my left knee decided to stay put. The next thing that I remember is hearing a loud 'pop', hitting the ground, and then becoming aware that my breathing was abnormal; not like the elephant man (God, I should have capitalized that. He was, after all, a man, wasn't he?), but more like 'I can't breath right' sort of abnormal. Well, the team, coach, and all came over to me and asked me to stand up. I couldn't move.

"Where does it hurt?," someone asked.

I had no clue, but it all seemed to hurt.

"Does it hurt here?," while pointing to some ambiguous spot on my knee cap.

I had no fucking clue as to where the pain was coming from, it just all sort of hurt. What I was aware of were the thoughts running through my head, thoughts that had to do with my future: 'Fuck, is this it? Is this the last God-damned memory that I am going to have of playing rugby? A scrimmage, a fucking scrimmage! Why could this not have been a championship? A final try? Something more noble? I screwed my knee up on a lousy tackle during a warm summer night's practice? And to think that I was just starting to get good at this. No, not just 'good at this'; I was starting to fucking love this sport!'

You see, I am fag. You know, a queer, a dick-sucking, ass-fucking, grade-A homosexual. 'Sport' was not in my vocabulary (unless you added water to that). The last thing I remembered playing was the piano. This whole sport thing had just started to evolve while I was in undergrad. Well, I 'played' sports in high school, if you can call it that. I ran track, and then cross-country. I was not like the other runners, you know, the ones that you would refer to as 'jocks'? I was running, because I could not to anything else athletic. I could not throw or catch a ball, kick a ball, run with a ball. I could just run, well, maybe swim if I tried hard, for that would have been a much more admirable choice than cross-country. If I was not a 'jock' on the swim team (by that I mean a good swimmer), at least I could have been associated with the swim team, and that in and of itself would have been much cooler than being associated with the cross-country team, or the long-distance track team.

During undergrad, at a Florida state university, I decided to play soccer for FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes for all of those heathen out there!). Now, why would I play soccer, a sport that I played maybe one season of in second grade? It seemed like fun, balls and stuff, cute Umbro shorts, and those cool soccer Sambas that everyone was wearing (How I did not know that I was a fag is beyond me!).

That's the thing, I was not really 'out' yet. It was freshman year, and I was still fighting the gay thing. I did not want to date any girls for fear of it confirming for me that I was not really intereseted in them. I did not want to join a fraternity, because that may just be entirely too overstimulating for me sexually (all of this shit was unbeknownst to me at the time. I can look at it now and wander in my head, and I do mean wander, not wonder...like walking through my head, and think about what life was like for me back then. I sort of wish we had that ability to see things so clearly as they happen and not just have to see them in hindsight like that. Oh, well.) So, I did the next best thing: I joined FCA.

This proved to be a fantastic compromise for me at the time. (1) I was defending against my homosexuality by joining a super-ego Christian cult. (2) It provided me an outlet by which I could think of myself as 'different'. I'm not gay, I'm a Christian. (3) It was gratifying my need to be close with men (athletes at that!, Remember the wanting to join the fraternity?) Here I was in a Christian fraternity, with hot guys, and no threatening libidinal impulses to boot! Well, at least they were supressed by the built-in super-ego forces at play in a Christian organization. This is how I think pediphiles become priests. They know that something is different about them, not just different but they have a sense of being 'wrong' or 'bad', and they are keenly aware of this, at least on an unconscious level. They are attracted to the priesthood, because it allows them a chance to defend against their unwanted urges (having sex with kids) by putting into place an external control, or externallized super-ego (The Church). The same thing happens in the military and the police department. Why do you think that there are so many criminals in the police departments of America? Because the police department offers, for those who are inclined to crime, a sense that their impulses for crime will be contained by the badge, the police department, the oath they take, etc. That is, if one does not want to be something, then one can become the opposite. There are too many examples to mention...let's continue.

So, I played soccer for FCA...AND I SUCKED!!! I couldn't kick the ball, dribble the ball, or do whatever it was that one does to score in a game of soccer. What I loved about the FCA thing, was that no one faulted me for sucking. They all were playing 'for the love of God", and that meant that I could suck. Perfect, huh?

What about rugby, you say? Well, I went to get my Masters in Sport Psychology (WHAT!?...long story) at a school in Boston, and the two University rugby coaches were getting their doctorates in sport psychology. I knew nothing about the sport, and wanting to learn more about the sport, the lingo, etc, I asked them if I could come and watch a practice. Instead, they invited me to take part in the practice. I was terrified. Fag me?, then a totally out and conscious fag, was going to play rugby? What the fuck was I thinking? I went out, had a great time, got some really great feedback from the coaches ("Dude, your are really pretty athletic."), and stayed.

I moved to Washington, DC, and started playing for a mostly gay team (I didn't know they had those either!), and loved it. Here, I was with other gay men, fags-like-me, who were at various stages in their learning. No one yelled at you for fucking up, not knowing the rules, or not being athletic enough. I started a learning curve that was going up and up every day. I would go home having seen the progress I had made during the week, practice, or a game, and just beam! I was discovering a part of my identity that I had no idea was there: I was athletic, and a pretty good athlete, at that.

So, laying on that field with pain shooting through my leg, I wondered, "Is this it? Is this my career, a lousy two years of playing rugby? Jesus, I was just getting good at this shit. I was hitting mother-fuckers on the field that would have intimidated me on the street, and I plowed them!"

I got up off the field, went to the orthopedic surgeon, and he said, "rest it. Go to physical therapy, and get back to rugby in a year". I did what the bitch said, stayed off it, went to PT, got back in the gym, worked out for a year, got to where I was lifting heavier than before the injury; However, I was having constant problems with it. The knee gave out on me while taking a trash can down a flight of stairs. I ended up on my face in the trash at the bottom. Then there was this one time on a dance floor where my knee just gave out on me completely.

I did what the doc said, and after the year and a half of 'rehab' I went back to playing rugby. My first season back, this spring, I was at practice, the coach asked me to demonstrate a ruck with him. He came in, hit me like in the text books, my knee gave out, I went down, and I heard what sounded like a bag of Doritos going 'crrrrrunch'! Now, if I thought my knee hurt two years ago, this really fucking hurt. I had to have two mates help me up my four flights of stairs. I awoke the next morning to find that my knee had swollen to the size of a grapefruit. I saw a doc (a different one from Asshole, whom I hated), a highly recommended one, and he said that I had a laundry list of shit wrong, and that surgery would be needed.

So, here I am, ready for surgery tomorrow. It's funny, it makes me feel like a man, having surgery for a rugby injury. It is kind of like a butch thing for me, like war wounds, or how scars are for some people. I have not doubt that this knee injury holds much meaning for me in reference to my homosexuality: my need to prove to myself that I am a man, or masculine, whatever that means. And I am aware that the idea of surgery sounds very noble. However, tonight, on the eve of my surgery, I am scared to death. This is going to put me out for a number of weeks. I have to lie with my leg in cradle for nine hours a day, as it rocks my knee back and forth in order to increase my range of motion, for ten days to a week. I am going to go stir crazy, fucking stir crazy! I am way too active to sit on my ass and watch 'Springer' all day, which is why I am starting a blog. I figure it will give me something to do while I am watching my knee go up, and go down, up, and down.

The title "On the Couch" is because that is literally where I am, yet I like the image that it conjures up of therapy, of a patient in therapy being on the couch. For that is precisely what this is for me, therapy.

Thanks for listening.