Spine Notes 3: Second best

"Now what are you going to do? What's second-best?"

"I don't want second-best… You don't understand, second-best is nowhere close to first best nor is it close to bringing me hope or happiness. Here's first best up here, and second best is 1,000 feet under the ground. I don't want second-best."

"First best is no longer an option. What does second-best looks like?

...I'm not sure I'm ready to answer that question…

I'm down, I'm exhausted, and frankly, I think I have underestimated the brutal nature of the beast I am at war with. The sunbeams of optimism seem more scarce than ever, and it takes considerable effort to find a break in the clouds of the intensifying storm. The battle is not becoming easier, it is becoming much harder. 

Friday was perhaps the most difficult day I have had to push through since my accident. As I gain more control and strength of my arms and hands, it is cruelly ironic that I more clearly see how little I have, and how unappealing the future seems. 

This was the week that I moved from my power chair into my manual chair. This is progress, and I'm grateful to move forward so quickly, but it also came with very depressing setbacks. As I sat up in my manual chair I quickly realized that because I have no core control, if I extend both arms out in front of me, I fall forward like a rag doll onto the floor and out of my chair. So generally speaking, I won't be able to use both of my hands at the same time for anything. It's a new challenging game of balance that I didn't anticipate. Admittedly, this was extremely discouraging to me.

I know there are people who have less than I do. I know there are other people with spinal cord injuries that would do anything for their hands, but even with that recognition, I ask myself seriously, "Can I live like this for the rest of my life? Do I want to live like this for the rest of my life?" I meant what I said at the beginning of my accident when I said that my main joy in life was in the friendships and the love that I have of my family and friends. I said that because I meant it. However, almost everything else that has ever seriously brought me joy is gone. I painfully realize that unless I gain more core muscles, I will never be the flutist or musician that I've always wanted to become. This alone is devastating to me. This, along with so many other things, is a thing of the past and I mourn the loss of the joys that made me whole.

I find myself longing to be free, to be liberated from my prison. My prison is not my hospital room, nor is it my wheelchair... my prison is my body. I'm confined within my own fleshy prison cell, and long for freedom, but only to conclude that there is no key to the door, no loose hinges to remove, and no windows to escape from. I'm helplessly incarcerated like an inmate. If someone doesn't feed me, I don't eat. If someone doesn't give me to drink, I don't drink. 

My future life in this condition is sickeningly inorganic. I will live and move only with the use of adaptive equipment, never to be alone again. A wheelchair, a stair glide, a catheter, a slide board, a suppository, an electrical muscle stimulator, and the list goes on…

"Can this really be my reality? How could this happen to me?" On Friday, after having these questions run through my head, and spending a day of holding back tears, it was only minutes before physical therapy that I broke down, slumped forward in my chair with my elbows on my knees, and sobbed... Through my tears, I cried to my sweet parents who had tears in their own eyes, "I don't want to live the rest of my life in a wheelchair."

After more sobbing, and some intense discussion, my father asked me at the appropriate time, "Now what are you going to do? It's what we talked about before, what's second-best?" It's not a question that's foreign to me. It's a question that has floated through my head at different times and for different reasons. And here it is again, demanding a response, "What's second-best, Carson? First best is no longer an option."

While I despise that question in many ways, I know that it is the only door open now. It might not lead to peace and plenty by any means, but it does lead somewhere. And at least it leads away from where I currently am.

If I know myself at all, I know that in some ways in a very proud man. I refuse to take the easy path, simply because it's the easiest path. I'm up for a challenge, and I know how I respond to these kind of situations. I'll wipe the tears from my eyes, slightly embarrassed at my weakness, and proceed forward to work until I'm exhausted.

There are times when I begin to chastise myself at my lack of hope or faith. But lately I've understood again that faith is working towards that which is unseen. It's working towards that which has not yet been realized. My faith is still very much being tested.

I know that the expression of faith is not necessarily found in perfect endurance, but in always moving forward despite difficult setbacks, even catastrophic setbacks. Faith is found in blood, sweat and tears, in dirt-stained faces and bloodshot eyes. Faith is found in bruises, scraped and bloodied knees, and calloused hands. I will be very surprised if any man can arrive to heaven in a pristine, wrinkle-free suit, a bright white shirt, necktie, and perfectly polished shoes.

Living faithfully, that is, living full of faith, is a conscious decision, and is a difficult one to make. For me in this particular situation, it is often harder to live with faith than to live without it. For me, reigniting my hope can be painful. Why do it then? Why continue forward when it's easier to quit? It's because of what I gain every time I do it. I always come out stronger. Just like weightlifting, the greater the burden or weight, the stronger the resulting outcome. It is nearly always painful, but I think that's how it's supposed to be. I think it's supposed to be hard. I can't imagine that Abraham was skipping happily up to Mt. Moriah to sacrifice his only son, the only one that could fulfill all of the promises made to him. A trial of faith is just that, a trial.

However, somehow, someway, suffering perfects us and makes us more like the Savior. "God having provided some better thing for them through their sufferings, for without sufferings they could not be made perfect." (Hebrews 11:40)

So back to that question… What am I going to do now? What's second-best now that first best is not an option? To be honest I'm not sure what second-best looks like yet. I'm not yet certain what I'm going to do with this new part of my life… But I do know what I won't do. I won't give up.

I also know that it is within my power to retain my hope in the Savior and his miraculous power as long as I am restricted in my mobility. I won't give up on the power of prayer, especially collective, faithful prayers of full healing.

So now what am I going to do? I will fight as long as I have anything at all to give. The battle that commenced on December 30, 2013 has only recently begun, and perhaps I underestimated my opponent, but this isn't over, and none of us save God knows what the future will look like. This will be a battle of time and patience. In the end, an indomitable spirit and gritty perseverance will be all I can give as an expression of my faith, and I hope that God will accept it as my most humble offering.