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A month ago, not five minutes from my home, Dianne kissed me, bid me well, and watched as people in grey scrubs, funky hats, and adorned with all manner of tags, lanyards, and pens wheeled me through double doors into a chandelier-filled room of no shadows, stainless tables, tile walls, floor drains, computer screens, and pointy tools laid out in regimental rows.

Whoever was in charge of this facility insisted that everyone involved take note of my birthdate. It was a nice gesture. And you know, I paid a lot of money to be here and be treated well. Next January, just watch: I’m betting I receive a record-setting number of birthday cards.

Having been on the planet as long as I have, I have discovered a guiding principle when going to the hospital for a procedure: Do not lose track of your underwear. If you do, bad things will happen to you.

An effervescent lady named RN, with hair piled on top of her head, the first person I met after waiving all rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, greeted me warmly, inquired about my date of birth, and handed me a backward facing bath robe with instructions to remove all my clothes. I wasn’t yet an hour into my resolve about my underwear and had already lost control of my situation.

The people in the tiled and stainless-filled, glorified garage, were not all that talkative. I asked if they had plans for the weekend, if their children were well, and if they were following “American Idol.” Apparently not.

And that’s the last I remember.

As it turns out, when God invented the shoulder, He arranged four muscles to create the shoulder’s range of motion. Each muscle is attached at one end to the shoulder and the other end to an anchor point in the four directions of the compass. Someone in the marketing department who speaks Latin, named the top-most muscle the, supraspinatus. Then, so I would look like a hunk on days at the lake, God connected the bicep to the shoulder, and called it a day.

I’m laced together with high-end shoe laces.

This has proven a wonderful design. Until it wasn’t.

More precisely, the design was great for many years, but the mileage and use I’ve required of my left rotator cuff took its toll.

The top muscle, the one attached to my shoulder and spine, tore at the ligament holding my shoulder in place. When this occurred, the tendon connecting my bicep to my shoulder also gave up on its duties. With all alternatives found lacking, Dianne and I made the drive to the hospital. As it turns out, surgery was necessary and successful.

I’m laced together with high-end shoe laces, screws that biodegrade, glue, and more tape than Home Depot. My skin is painted various shades of brown. My fingers are purple and yellow and even my toenails hurt. To make certain nothing wild happens, I’m fitted with a metal sling-contraption, held in place with Velcro and straps around my neck and waist. The sling itself has barbed spikes for enhanced suffering. (The last part—the spike part—could be a bit overstated.)

Last Tuesday I started rehab. There’s a dead tree in front of the building. The intake lady is, Olga. She has hairy forearms and smells of garlic. My therapist is, Vlad. He wears steel-toed work boots and a leather apron. He shuffles and grunts when he walks. Torches burn along the staircase leading to the basement. Chains hang from hooks. Stained shackles lie in piles. Water is dripping somewhere. Winches. Wooden tables. Pulley systems. The music of Kenny G plays from speakers in the ceiling. There are no clocks anywhere.

Rehab is the real deal. The good news is, I couldn’t care less what happened to my lost underwear.

Yes, I had rotator cuff surgery on my left shoulder in late April. My surgeon, his team, the hospital staff, my therapy folks, and my dear wife have all been fantastic. There is a light at the end of this tunnel.

My five-year-old neighbor, Lila, who suffers no fools, saw my sling the other day and ran across the yard. “Mr. Preston! What happened to your arm?”

I had anticipated this question and knew I couldn’t tell the truth to Lila or any other woman in my world—the truth being, I got old. So, I stated my prepared story. “Lila, I was in the woods hunting for rattlesnakes and alligators when I encountered an angry Grizzly bear. It charged. I tackled the bear. I was fearless! We wrestled and fought. I was undaunted. Courageous even. And you know what? I won the battle—but not before the bear bit me on the shoulder.”

Around the time I introduced alligators into my story, Lila folded her arms and squinted through strands of hair.

“So, there you have it. That’s my story.”

Lila moved black curls away from her eyes, pursed her lips, “I don’t believe you, Mr. Preston.”

I told my other neighbor, Steve, who’s a lawyer, the same story. He says we have a good chance for a settlement. “What happened to you is worse than a car wreck. Or a drunk semi driver. This is a train wreck! There’s real money on the table,” he believes. He’s proposing a 40%-60% split after his expenses. His people and my people are going to talk.

Obviously, I’m able to use my keyboard, but not well. So, I ask for patience. I’ll be back to fighting form soon. I can drive in two weeks. Three or four months to regain range of motion. A year before I return to my primary job as a major league pitcher.

Meanwhile, I’m grateful. I’m surrounded by people who care and a heavenly Father who’s present and accounted for.

Shouldering On

I’m laced together with high-end shoe laces.