Completely Disagree

182. It strikes me as ironic, assuming that I fully trust everything learned since I opened my eyes for the first time in eight months, that they, the medical staff, now wants me to rest. I will risk sensory overload and muscular fatigue to fill the memory gap, but in this case what I recognize to be the while veil of morphine is masking a convex of pain. I submit to the free-fall watching the chute open as I mentally jot a note to self before splashdown, 'Did they take our Queen?' I am the anchor of a four-man really team. I watch as the three athletes ahead of me fight a courageous bout with an obviously more talented team. They are twice as fast, trying half as hard. I am appalled by the dichotomy, a sensation that I have become conditioned to see as a personal challenge. The opposition's anchor is starring at me beneath an air mixed of two parts over-confidence and one part fear. I look at the gap I must make up and then at the race clock. It is frozen, its light emitting diodes stuck in digital eternity. The shadow-self notices my gaze and follows my eyes to the clock. I sense the atmosphere change to 50/50, fear on the rise. The unknown, great doubt, the troublesome, the cosmic prankster dealing from a deck of jokers and grim reapers. I prepare to play the hand, now overflowing with a deep-cell charge of destiny amid the sudden transfer of momentum. I got the hammer. Deep breath, smooth hand-off and hit max in three strides. And then the light. My eyes open to the reality of my frailty and weakness. I am ashamed of my own inability to balance humility with ambition. I want to tell the runner that mere victory is not the goal, that winning is nothing without the strident dedication to understanding its opposite. You can never lose. One either wins or learns. THAT is the race. And no one wins every time. Pick your races carefully. The exponential growth is in hitting the tape with nothing left to give. Take that lesson and leave the suffering at the recycling center. The light. It seems that Davis has replaced both Julie and Drysdale on watch. I bring him into focus and for one obscure second he shares the facade of the runner. I shake the cobwebs from my opiate dream and nod him a silent salute. The doctor is standing next to him looking up from his device and scanning the data on the monitor behind me. I am dying to get a look at it but allow the moment to unfold on their terms. "Hey bud, welcome back," Davis consoles. I try to talk but a softball size hairball is firmly logged in my throat. I manage a guttural grunt in appreciative response as the doctor again assumes control with a scribbled prescription for rest. "Easy does it Mr. Larsen, we have to take this slow. Please try to relax, there is plenty of time," he says unconvincingly. I see the frozen race clock and completely disagree.