"You see the two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you discover why you were born." - Viola Davis, 2012
The day I was born -- December 13, 1984, and the day I discovered why -- November 29, 2008 -- the day of my stoke. It was a horrible day, a tragic day, a devastating day, a day where I lost everything, but, I know, sadly, that one, singłe day will forever define who I am, and who I will be. As a result of that day, however awful it was, I now know why I'm here and what I can bring to this mad world. Sharing my story, my fight, my pain, is what will make me one insanely experienced and sympathetic doctor, or an honest and passionate writer. It's kind of freeing to know, without any shade of doubt, what exactly you are meant to do. Think about it, I can say the most cliché line to a patient, "I know how you feel," and actually mean it. I'll have automatic 'street cred' and the war scars to prove it.
Now, just because I see the possible value of my experience, it does not discount at all the fact that I would give anything, my heart, my soul, my life, not to have this experience at all... I wish it all away every night, but face it all again every morning, with a little more disappointment, a little more fear, and a little more hatred than the day before. But, maybe, from my pain, someone will find peace. From my fears, someone could gain perspective. From my hate, someone could find inspiration. From my fight, someone could find strength. But, I refuse to be a martyr, to sacrifice everything I am, everything I have, and everything I want, to lead a life of suffering, just so others may gain something from my experience. That's a bit too selfless, even for me. I deserve to be a little more narcissistic, and less masochistic.
So, I'm waiting for a third day, and boy, will it be one sweet, sweet day. For me, if this third day doesn't happen, the first two days won't even be worth it. This third day, will be the day I beat this thing, the day I regain some semblance of my life, the day this whole, horrible nightmare is behind me, the day I win. But with every frustrating second, every disappointing year, every painful nightmare, this day seems to be slipping farther and farther away, out of my grasp, out of my reach, out of my sight. Though my sweat drops during the day are full of fight, my teardrops at night are full of hopelessness. I realize this may be out of my hands, no matter how hard I try. Then, whose freaking hands is it in?
Tim Tebow's, obvi (I know, so last year). But like Tebow, I wholeheartedly believe in the "hopeless comeback." When there's nothing going right for you and your team, when everything seems hopeless, when you feel like you're fighting for a lost cause, something unbelievable happens, and somehow, you win. Whether that something is divine intervention, positive, strong beliefs from you and your team, or just dumb luck, that something is magical. All I can do is play my absolute hardest everyday in this game called rehab, and let the good vibes take me the rest of the way. Go hard or go home, right? So here goes nothing. With a Hail Mary pass, a trick play, Jesus, Allah, Ram, or just some luck, me and my team (what up Rajani's!), will, somehow, win.