Trail Marker #3: Nine Days Into the Climb
“The only way out is through.”
“To grow, we must be willing to leave our comfort zone and step into the learning zone.”
Two simple adages — and both have taken on a whole new meaning for me in the last nine days.
The Day It Began
October 22. The plan was simple: arrive at the hospital by 7:20 a.m., have surgery, and be home by early afternoon. That was the plan — but the real plan was to stay patient, take things as they came, and adjust as needed.
At 7:20 that morning, that kind of mindset felt heroic.
Theresa and I headed to the hospital together. She was driving — which always makes her feel like she’s taking a driving test, especially when I’m the passenger. Add rain and highway construction, and our morning started with its own little adventure.
Once there, things moved quickly: check-in, change of clothes, a quick shave around the knee, IV port, nerve block. A blur of faces — the doctor, the anesthesiologist, the OR staff. Then I remember hugging a pillow as they began the spinal, laying back, and the lights dimming.
I woke up hours later, parched as if I’d just crossed a desert. I devoured the apple I’d brought and three rice cakes, chasing them down with glass after glass of water. What I didn’t realize was that all that water, combined with the anesthesia, would set off an unexpected chain reaction.
The Detour I Didn’t Expect
It turns out surgery revealed more than a knee issue — it highlighted an existing one. My enlarged prostate made urination impossible, and that excessive water intake threw off my electrolytes. Sodium and potassium levels dropped dangerously low, and what should have been a same-day discharge turned into almost three days in the hospital.
To add to the mix, my body didn’t tolerate the Oxy pain meds well.
Yet, in the middle of all that, I found small blessings. I got to know the nurses and caregivers in the short-term recovery area. I became part of their rhythm — the six-hour blood tests, the measured sips of water, the slow recalibration of my body. There was a quiet kindness in that space.
By Friday afternoon, I was finally discharged. I made it up the stairs at home — one deliberate step at a time — and settled into a new rhythm: managing pain, coaxing flexibility, and keeping everything else functioning as it should.
The Work of Recovery
Recovery is not glamorous. It’s humbling. It’s measured in tiny milestones — a few more degrees of bend, a slightly straighter leg, an extra lap around the pool table.
I’ve divided my days into four six-hour segments — each one a window of focus between doses of pain medicine. My pain level hovers between five and eight. Sometimes I count minutes. Sometimes I breathe through the waves. But every time I move, stretch, or walk, I remind myself:
The only way back to life — to a better life — is through.
And that means doing the work:
- The exercises, even when they hurt.
- The meals that nourish healing.
- The daily discipline of staying present.
It also means new doctors and new lessons — like addressing my prostate issue with a urologist. Another detour, another thing to learn. Another step through.
But I haven’t been walking this road alone. Theresa has been my rock — steady, patient, and full of grace. She quietly sat at my bedside in the hospital when I had no concept of time, watching the hours pass slowly. Over the week, she’s helped me do the things I simply couldn’t: emptying the catheter bag, lifting my leg into bed when my muscles refused to cooperate, filling the ice machine, and helping me pull on compression stockings. She’s cleaned up after sponge baths, kept track of meds, and found ways to make even the hardest days lighter — sometimes by sitting across from me at the cribbage board, laughing between turns.
Her care has been constant, her love unconditional. And when the pain is sharp or the frustration rises, it’s her presence that grounds me — reminding me that healing isn’t just physical. It’s emotional. It’s relational. It’s shared.
Comfortably Uncomfortable
In coaching, I often talk about the importance of stepping outside our comfort zone — that growth happens in the learning and challenge zone. I used to describe it in workshops and conversations. Now, I’m living it.
There is almost no comfortable position for my leg right now. But even here, I can choose how I respond. I find myself thinking that I’m becoming comfortably uncomfortable.
I stretch, walk, straighten my leg, breathe through the pain — not to suffer, but to thrive. Every bit of discomfort is a sign of progress. Every challenge is an invitation to grow.
A Question for You
Pain and growth have one thing in common — they both ask us to keep moving forward, even when we’d rather stay still.
So, as I focus on my recovery, I’ll leave you with this:
What are you working on right now that’s pushing you out of your comfort zone — and into your learning zone?
Because whether it’s surgery, self-growth, or a dream that scares you a little, the truth remains:
The only way out is through.
Trail Notes
Every trail has its rough patches. This week reminded me that healing — like hiking — happens one deliberate step at a time.
Two knees rebuilt. One dream revived. A life rebuilt, one step at a time.
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