Believing and Knowing.

Even young children can distinguish between believing something to be true and knowing something to be true. Often a child believes something he or she is told, but does not fully recognize it as truth until they experience it in person. Sometimes a parent’s love for their children falls into this category of truth; it is believed but not known.

When I was a kid, I knew that my Mom loved me and believed that my Dad did as well. The reason I drew the distinction was that Mom always told me that she loved me, and her actions made it clear that her love for me was as much of a fact as anything can be. In the case of my Dad however, things were more ambiguous. Mom told me that he loved me, but Dad never came right out and said it. And his actions were always in my best interest, but they were far less direct in demonstrating actual love. For example, beginning about the time I entered junior-high, my Dad’s job became an all consuming monster. He would work ungodly hours, sometimes more than 16 hours straight, in an environment that from what I could tell was the equivalent of hell on earth. I believed that he continued to toil away at a misery-inducing job, because it was his way of showing that he cared for the family. If there was one thing that he could always do it was to be the provider. This is not to criticize him; he did what he knew how to do, and he did it to the best of his abilities. So I relied on indirect evidence such as this to form the foundation of my belief that my Dad loved me.

I am fortunate that the story didn’t end in mere belief; I did come to know that my Dad loved me. This knowledge was obtained somewhat later in life than what would be considered “normal,” but this makes it all the more memorable. So, for the curious few, I offer the story of how a son learned of his father’s love and of a father who learned to show it. It isn’t straightforward, but few things in life ever are.

It’s somewhat ironic that I have to begin at the time when my career as a high school wrestler was coming to a premature end. The whole reason I first tried out for the wrestling team was to attempt to emulate my father and perhaps gain his recognition at the same time. I put nearly everything I had into it, and my senior year I had managed to become the team captain. I was aware that I wasn’t the best wrestler on the team. Sure I was good, but there were other members who were stronger, or faster, or had better skills than I did. What set me apart was my unwillingness to quit, my ability to push myself harder than what was necessary, and my sense of duty when it came to winning. It was my responsibility to win; that was my purpose.

Anyway, it was a Saturday in early November, and I was at another all-day tournament. Nothing particularly special about it, but there was plenty of strong competition from the area’s schools. I won my first match fairly easily, and felt pretty good about my chances until I saw who I was up against next. It was the repeat senior from Oakridge, that is, it was his second time as senior because he failed out the first time (after wrestling season, of course). He wasn’t all that good in terms of technique, but he made up for it by his strenght and speed. I had lost to him earlier in the season when he pulled a cheap, no-talent move on me and pinned me in the first 30 seconds of the match. My coach showed me the countermove, so I wouldn’t fall prey to it again, but I was still nervous about going up against him. Or should I say, that I was even more nervous than I usually was. I’d pace around the mat waiting for my match number to be called, go to the bathroom, come back and pace some more, go to the bathroom again, come back, feel like I needed to go the bathroom again, and by that time my number would be up.

I remember stepping out to the center of the mat and looking down at the guy; he was easily a foot shorter than me. I also remember the whistle blowing and the next second I was face down on the mat with him on top of me. He had taken me down so fast, it didn’t even register until he tried turning me for the pin. He tried the same cheap-ass move as before, but I was ready for it this time. When I pulled off an escape, he looked genuinely confused that I wasn’t on my back. He actually looked at his coach like, “what do I do now?” Taking advantage of the situation, I shot on him and took him down. That’s when the wrestling matched turned into a bull-riding event. Damn it was hard to keep on top of him, and I couldn’t break him down for the life of me. I managed to hang onto him for maybe another thirty seconds before he broke free, and, Bam! I was back on the mat. He had taken me down again. This time he just held onto to me, never really trying to go for the pin, until time ran out for the first period. It was 4 to 3, him in the lead. In the second period, he deferred the coin-toss, and I took the down position. He kept me down for nearly the entire round, but I managed to escape with maybe 15 seconds to spare. Which was just enough time for him to take me down yet again. Now it was 6 to 4. I don’t anyone had actually gotten to the third period with this guy, at least not this season, and everyone could tell that he was gassed. Everyone except me. I was still so nervous that I was only conscious of objects and movement. He took the down position for the start of the third period knowing that all he had to do to win was not get turned for a pin. I, on the other hand, knew that I had to either turn him or pin him outright, and I didn’t consider either of those in the realm of possibility. The whistle blew, and the rodeo started back up. But this time he was less of a bull and more of a bronco. It was my turn to hold him down for most of the period, not accomplishing anything other than wearing out both of us. With 20 seconds to go, I lost control and he earned 1 point for the escape. We ended up out of bounds, so the ref blew the whistle to reposition us in the center. And I remember exactly what happened next. I looked down at him again, and I saw that he was wobbly. It finally dawned on me that he was exhausted, and while I was tired, I still had plenty of gas in the tank. I thought, “I can actually beat this guy,” and I wasn’t nervous anymore. The whistle blew, and I shot first. But he still had some speed, and all I was able to do was get a lock on one of his legs. I didn’t have any leverage, but I didn’t have time for a second attempt. The ref called time, and the match was over, 7 to 4. The 3 point spread belied how close the match actually had been. I was disappointed, but more consequently, I was spent. I didn’t have anything left for my next match in the consolation bracket, and I knew it. Still, I had to try. That’s what I did. Try.

I didn’t go through my nervous ritual this time, because I had already lost this match. With the outcome a foregone conclusion, I just waited patiently for my number to be called and then jogged to the center of the mat. I had easily  beaten this guy before, and I saw that he was the one who was nervous. But he was also more aware of his surroundings than I had been, and he saw the look of defeat in my eyes. To make a long story short, I flopped around for the first two periods, I don’t even remember what the score was, but I put up enough of fight that people thought I was trying. In the third period I had taken the down position, and my opponent was trying to turn me over for a pin. The guy wasn’t very good, and in his attempts to do god-only knows what kind of move, he managed to pull my arm into a position known as a “chicken-wing.” Basically, my arm was getting ripped backwards and over my head. It’s a great way to dislocate someones shoulder, hence It is an illegal move and should have been stopped immediately. I heard my coach screaming (“THAT’S ILLEGAL!!! THAT’S ILLEGAL!!!”), but the ref just didn’t call it. If I had just given up right then, he would have flipped me over, pinned me and won the match. But I couldn’t just quit; I didn’t ever quit. So I fought the illegal move as hard as could, trying to pull my arm back down to a less tortuous position, and in doing so, experienced an even greater pain as a group of muscles tore themselves apart. Surprisingly, it wasn’t my shoulder that gave out. Rather it was several of the intercostal muscles that are in between the ribs and form the chest wall. Of course, I wasn’t aware of this at the time. All I knew was pain. I was so detached from my surroundings that I didn’t even hear the whistle signalling the end of the match. Afterwards, a couple of my teammates told me that I was face down on the mat with my arm stuck in this weird position, pointing to the ceiling. Apparently, I stayed like this until someone came and manually pulled my arm down.

Given the appearance of things, it was understandable that everyone thought it was my shoulder that had given out. Initially, even I couldn’t localize the source of the pain, because everything became numb. I suspect that my brachial plexus, the bundle of nerve that runs from the spinal cord down the entire arm, was somewhat traumatized, but for me it really didn’t matter what the cause was. I knew that my season was over.

My coach taped an ice-pack to my shoulder and put my arm in a sling, and everyone pretended like it was nothing serious. I’d get over it and would be back to normal in no time. Those were the words spoken, but people’s faces told the truth. They knew as well as I did that I wasn’t going to recover quickly, but they opted for politeness over reality anyway.

The next day, Sunday, I awoke to the sensation of being rhythmically stabbed between my third and fourth, and fourth and fifth ribs. Everytime that I inhaled the pain would spike and then gradually dissipated as I exhaled. Stupidly, I tried rotating my arm to test my shoulder, and the knifes I had been feeling turned into fire. It felt like the entire left side of my chest was burning and at the same time there was a bizarre sensation of fluid running down my side, like I was bleeding. Fortunately, there wasn’t any blood, but the pain was so excruciating that I actually started crying.

After the pain had subsided a little, I composed myself and went downstairs. My Dad was just leaving for work, but he stopped when he saw me.

“You okay?”

“Sort of. Did Mom tell you what happened.”

“Sort of.”

Of course, I don’t remember exactly what was said, but I must have conveyed the general story of what happened.

I do remember saying this though, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to wrestle again.”

To which my Dad responded, “Keep your chin up.”

I know that seems like a pretty insignificant statement, but I had never heard that before from my Dad. In fact, I don’t really remember any form of vocalized compassion ever coming from him prior to that. To be perfectly honest, it felt weird more than anything.

Anyway, Dad went off to work, and I did the same thing I did every Sunday; I went for a run.

As I headed out, I knew that I wasn’t doing my body any favors, but by this time in my life, my obsessive-compulsive personality disorder was pretty well established. Meaning that I didn’t have any say in the matter. It was Sunday, therefore I ran. Period. I could go into far more detail about the difficulties this disorder has caused me, but this isn’t the place to do so. For now, just think of it as a distorted perception of obligation to perform certain tasks at set times and in set manners.

I was accustomed to running with injuries, but the pain I experienced then was something new to me. Every breath burned the outside of my rib cage, and the more I exerted myself the hotter the fire got. And the pain simply enraged me. Something’s trying to stop me? No fucking way! It hurts? So what? You think Thompson would have quit? (Adam Thompson was last year’s team captain, and as far as I was concerned was an absolute machine.) With each stab of pain the self-hatred grew. If I stopped, I was nothing. If I stopped, I had failed.

I pushed through the full 6.5 miles, made it home, and collapsed on my bedroom floor. I was so pissed off at everyone and everything, but mostly I was pissed off at myself. You can’t explain the guilt that an athlete feels when he or she is unable to perform at their best due to an injury. Hell, I could have been hit by a bus, broken every bone in my body, and I still would have found a way to blame myself for not being able to run the next day.

After taking a shower, I locked myself in my room until 5 o'clock rolled around. Because it was Sunday, Dad usually came home early enough to eat dinner with the rest of the family, and sure enough I heard him pull into the garage right on schedule. I went downstairs to wait at the table with Mom (my brother was off doing his own thing). Usually, Dad would come in, put his briefcase down, and then just sit down and eat. This day was no exception, but instead of letting me and Mom do all the talking, he asked me how I was doing.

“Not so good. It still kind of hurts,” I replied, deliberately understating the severity of the pain.

“Where?”

“Where does it hurt? Here,” I started to lift up my arm to point to the spot but winced at the motion.

That was enough for my Dad to figure out the truth. I was hurting like hell.

After dinner, Dad went upstairs, took a shower, but before going to bed right away like he usually did, he knocked on my door.

“It’s open,” I called out.

“Here, see if this helps.” My Dad had brought me one of those neoprene back-braces.

“Wear it higher up, and see if keeping pressure on it helps,” he explained. And with that, he went to bed.

I put on the brace, and it actually did help decrease the pain I felt when breathing. I still couldn’t rotate my arm without daggers stabbing into me, but even a little relief was better than nothing.

I couldn’t really concentrate on studying, so I just laid on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of how worthless I had become. Exhaustion eventually won out over my self-loathing, and I drifted off to sleep, still wearing the brace.

Monday morning, I got up at my usual time of 6AM, showered, dressed, and then studied until I had to leave at 7 (noticeably absent from this process was eating breakfast or preparing lunch, again an issue for another day). I had just finished getting dressed when I heard the phone ring. Sure it was early, but I figured it was one of my classmates in the area needing a ride. So I wasn’t all that surprised when my Mom knocked on the door. What shocked the hell out of me was when she told me it was my Dad. Was he in an accident? Of course not, he was at work. Did somebody die? Had terrorists seized his office building?

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Dad? Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m okay,” I lied. It still hurt to breath.

“The brace work okay?”

“Yeah, it helps. Thanks.”

“Sure. Well, that’s it. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Have a nice day.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

Who the hell did I just talk to?

I went downstairs to return the phone.

“Hey Mom, did you tell Dad to call me?” I was trying to figure out what just happened.

“No, why?”

“Nothing, it’s just... He just called to see how I was doing.”

Again, weird. Just weird.

I went to school, floated through the day in a fog of depression and pain, and at the end of the day found myself at the front of the wrestling room, leading the team through our warm-up exercises. We started with leg stretches first, and didn’t have any problem with those. Then we moved on to push-ups. I would count on the downward movement and the team would say “up” on the upwards.

“One.”

“Up!”

“Two.”

“Up!”

You may be surprised at the number of movements that recruit the intercostal muscles as stabilizers. With every push-up it felt like I was ripping something between my ribs. Still, I managed the full count to 25. Then we flipped on our backs for sit-ups.

“One.”

“Up!”

There was no two. I was writhing on my side in agony. Coach ran over to me and got me to my feet. I remember the whole team looking at me, and me thinking that they just saw weakness. Coach pulled me out of the room and brought me to the athletic trainer’s office to get checked out. He had me lay on a table and asked me where it hurt. I told him, and he then proceeded to push his fingers on the exact spot I had just described.

“Does it hurt when I do this.”

Jesus H. Christ! Yes, it fucking hurts! Don’t touch me again you asshole!

“Yes. That hurts.”

“It feels like you’ve torn something.”

I kind of figured that out already, so would please stop prodding me between my ribs!!

“Really? Is it bad?”

“Could take over a month to heal properly, but you can’t do anything to aggravate it.”

Breathing aggravates it for god sakes. What, am I just supposed to stop breathing for a month?

“So he can’t wrestle?” My coach asked.

“Not if you want him to heal. He could tear the muscles completely, and that would require surgery to repair.”

Shit. Now I couldn’t even lie about how I was feeling. Coach knew it. The athletic trainer knew it. I knew it. My wrestling career was over.

I changed out of my practice clothes for the last time and went home defeated.

It was Monday, therefore (according to my OCPD) I lifted weights when I got home. I had my weight bench out in the garage which could have been cramped, but I had plenty of room when Dad’s car wasn’t there. As I went through my predetermined list of exercises, I cried. I cried out of pain, which was constant and seering, but I also cried out of disgust. “I am nothing.” With each rep I thought those words, and they drilled through me more forcefully than anything physical could.

I was just about finished with my routine when I heard my Dad’s car pull in the driveway. He was way earlier than usual for a weekday. He got out to close the side door so that Jake, our dog, wouldn’t get out, and that’s when he saw me. And he saw my face.

He didn’t say anything, but I broke down.

“I can’t do it anymore! I can’t do this, but I can’t stop! I can’t!”

Unlike everyone else, my Dad heard my unspoken question. He heard me asking if it was okay to stop, if it was okay to quit. He heard me asking if I was a failure.

And then he hugged me. For the first time that I could remember he hugged me.

“Then stop. You can stop now. It’s okay.” he said with the meaning I needed to hear.

And then I knew. Dad didn’t care whether I could wrestle or not. I mean, he cared that I was hurt, but he didn’t base his concern for me on my ability to perform. He didn’t expect me to be some kind of a machine, and he didn’t want me to destroy myself trying to meet what I imagined to be the expectations of others. He didn’t want to see me in pain, either physical or emotional, so he did what he alone was capable of doing. Because I was only capable of hearing it from him.

He told me it was okay to stop.

And it was.

-----

I love you Dad. Happy Birthday.