Identity Crisis: how adversity builds character

Meghan Sawitzke is a third-year journalism student and writes “Acts of Random Kindness” for the Daily News. Her views do not necessarily reflect those of the newspaper. 

The blast of heat you feel when you step onto the turf signals the start of a feeling I will never forget. The thunder of rattling bleachers over the roaring crowd follows. Then the touch of the ball at your feet. The sound of it hitting the back of the net before a team celebration. 

Suddenly, all of that was gone.

I became restricted to a walker and was escorted around the house. The cheers of fans turned into small celebrations after I took a single step. The things that used to come so easily are no longer an option; my body is failing me, and my mind slowly starts questioning everything. 

In 2019, an injury sent me spiraling down an abyss of pain and a halting recovery that took months to climb out of. Dysplasia is a genetic deformation, meaning the hip socket is rotated too far in one direction, causing the ball of the femur to slip out of place. 

In my case, this was accompanied by impingements: extra bone on the top of the femur, causing friction with the edge of the pelvis.

During pre-op, my mom tried to distract me from my anxiety by making conversation, but I knew the pain would be waiting for me when I woke up. I was poked and prodded by doctors, nurses and residents before I was taken back to the operating room.

When it was time to go under, everyone stopped and stared down at me. “This must be what it’s like right before you die,” I thought. 

An oxygen mask was placed over my face, and I started counting down: Ten, nine, eight …  

While I was out, they started sawing away. The surgery to fix dysplasia consists of three to four cuts in the pelvis to rotate the socket, which is then secured in place with screws. When dysplasia is accompanied by labral tears, a hip arthroscopy procedure is also performed to repair the tear and shave off part of your femur like sandpaper on splintered wood. 

 The next thing I remembered was the bright lights, my sore throat and crusty eyes. 

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked, peering at me from around his monitor. 

“Uh, okay?” I said, feeling unsure. “Ice chips?” 

I was still under anesthesia, scared to feel the pain kick in. My parents were holding my hand and feeding me ice. My body was covered in heated hospital blankets that felt like sandpaper, and I had a small memory foam donut under my head.

I couldn’t feel my body below my waist. I didn’t notice the tube in my spine, the surgical dressing over my incision, the catheter, the ice wrapped around my waist and leg, or the massaging cuffs around my calves to prevent blood clots. 

“This isn’t so bad,” I thought. But as soon as the painkillers began to wear off, I was begging for relief. 

“I don’t like you,” I said to one of my surgeons when he came to check on me after surgery. 

He had broken my bones at least three times, using a saw and chisel. The force and aggression required to crack and splinter my unconscious body seemed at odds with his kind demeanor. 

My body shook uncontrollably for 48 hours after surgery as my muscles tried to surround and protect my already broken bones. I never screamed out in pain, but I silently let the tears run down my face. 

“I can’t do this,” I said to my dad as I clenched his hand. But what other choice did I have? He cried as he watched his little girl in pain. 

“I wish I could take it all away,” he responded. 

I quickly said, “No, you don’t.” I couldn’t watch him go through this. 

For six days, these four walls, fluorescent lights, beeping machines and medication were my reality. I slept a lot, barely ate, watched TV and occasionally got out of bed to move around the room — doctor’s orders.

There were moments I looked down, expecting to see muscular and toned legs, but saw atrophied muscle instead. I saw weakness. 

It took five weeks of minimal movement. I was stuck using crutches and a walker to avoid putting pressure on my injured hip. I attended physical therapy sessions twice a week, starting with simple hip strengthening exercises, stretching and massaging out scar tissue. I never thought a massage could hurt so badly. 

Over eight months, I continued to improve, but it was not linear. I had numerous setbacks that forced me to go back to the basics. I hit a plateau and couldn’t see improvement. My body felt weak, and I began to question my own identity. I thought I was an athlete who could do it all. In reality, I got winded walking to the bathroom.

I felt like a prisoner in my own mind. I wanted to give up. I spent most nights crying silently in bed so I wouldn't wake up my dad, who was snoring on the couch nearby. 

I was stuck with the voices in my head with no escape from the blankets tucked tight around me. I convinced myself I wasn’t enough, weak and alone. I was in pain,  a nobody who couldn’t take care of myself. I went from a strong, independent and athletic woman, to a crippled, weak and vulnerable child.  

I lost myself in this process, but I somehow continued to get up every day.

Some days I wish I could forget the pain and agony, but I also remember the sense of accomplishment when I reached a milestone in my recovery. I remember how my tears of pain slowly shifted to tears of deep gratitude. I was fortunate enough to have family and friends by my side to catch me when I fell — literally and figuratively.

I was timid going into my first practice after recovery. I felt fragile, but being back on the field felt like a dream. Sometimes, I backed away when the ball came toward me, worried I would break or end up back in the hospital if it hit me.

To overcome my fear, my dad threw a soccer ball at me in our backyard so I could get used to the feeling of the ball hitting me again. When it hit me in the hip or upper thigh, the pain I felt was minimal compared to post-surgery, but it still was sharp like the blade of a knife. 

I worked on speed and agility during conditioning practices, but when I changed direction, the abrupt pivot tore scar tissue. I dropped to the ground for a moment, stretched and got back up. I continued to push myself mentally and physically throughout the season. 

I started to realize that there is no “limit” to what we can endure. The human body is made up of more than 7 trillion nerve endings and about 200 pain receptors, all primed to relay pain and harm. To warn us to flee or fight. 

I’m not entirely sure what kept telling me to fight. It could have been my parents nagging me about physical therapy or my natural reaction to pain. Maybe I needed to recover my athletic identity and desire to play the sport I loved.

Now, I can’t help but think how beautiful it is to feel pain. The ability to feel deeply is what makes us human. 

Josh Herron, a friend, mentor, role model, coach and athlete from my hometown, fought against cancer for years. After he celebrated being cancer-free on two separate occasions, it came back in 2018. Although he passed away a year later, he never lost the battle. Josh never let cancer control his life. He found the silver lining in everything. He was always positive and took the time to reach out to his friends and check in on them. 

Josh’s motto was “Win the day,” which I repeated in my head constantly after surgery: one day at a time. His inspiration was infectious. My father and I wore a bracelet with his rallying cry that embodied his spirit and encouragement. On hard days, we look down and say, “Just let me win the day.” 

I was forced to grow up faster than most. Surgery is no easy task for the mind or body, but neither is life. It can knock you down, but you have to choose whether or not to get back up.

Everyone fights different battles, but no one has control over what will happen next. The only certainty in life is how we respond to it. Your decision will ultimately determine who you become. 

When you come to the crossroads of giving up what you love or fighting to get it back, which would you choose?

Contact Meghan Sawitzke via email at Meghan.Sawitzke@bsu.edu.

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