I see the doctor tomorrow morning for the first time since surgery. My innate pessimism has started to erode my initial dreams of soccer balls and long runs and fast break lay-ups. I'm still hooked to my Polar Care 300 ice machine whenever possible, and my purple, swollen, scared, stretched, shaven knee still looks like those pictures of Uday and Qusay after the Marines got to them.
I have to admit I'm a little depressed. I know its a long road, but the sneaky dread that this surgery might have been unsuccessful is too much to keep at bay. I read a Newsweek column today from the enigmatic conservative George Will in which he said, "But before rejecting pessimism, consider its pleasures. Pessimists are right more often than not, and when they are wrong they are pleased to be so."
I agree wholeheartedly with that philosophy and outlook on life, eventhough it hasn't served me too well. Still, in this case, I will try to buck up and force feed the optimism omelet inside me. Must think positive about the recovery. Must dream of turn around jumpers and one-touch goals.