It’s a tight tunnel, where you get your MRI. Your body is pressed against cold, hard plastic. You can’t see your legs because the tunnel declines where they lie. The technician hands you a pair of bulky headphones and asks you what music genre you want to listen to. “Pop,” you say. That sounds happy. Deep breaths, and 40 minutes later you’ll be finished.

But why is it so hard to be still when you aren’t supposed to move?

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God doesn’t waste our experiences.

The story of how what I experienced in Florida is evident of that.

As I shared last week, in Part 6, in May I headed to sunny, 90+ degree Florida for a summer internship. I planned to be there until August, interning with a mixed marketing firm. It was the makings of a pretty great summer. My grandparents were going to let me take residence in their FL home, providing me the opportunity to have my very own “adventure.” I could write a whole post just on my experience living by myself that summer. You learn a lot about yourself when you’re alone. 

When I relocated to FL, I naturally had to find a different physical therapist. After a few visits, I had almost reached my maximum allowed visits through insurance. My parents told me to visit a doctor in the area to try to get my injury classified differently, which would potentially allow me to be approved for more PT visits. So I made an appointment with a reputable orthopedist specializing in hips.

At my first visit I quickly realized in the waiting room that I was among a lot of hip replacement candidates… aka people who were a few decades my senior. But the doctor was kind and listened closely to my story. He asked me to start from the beginning, so I did. I told him about my months of pain, PT, surgery, recovery – and little results.

“I think you need an MRI,” he told me. Finally, I thought. Real answers.

So a few days later I lay in a tunnel. Beep, beep, whir, dun dun dun, whirrrr. Pop music with static. Limbs that so desperately wanted to move. Cramp in my right elbow.

And the next week I went back to the FL doctor with accolades on his wall, and he in his white coat gave me an answer, alright…

“It appears you have a torn labrum.”

Shock. Frozen. Numb.

Last summer…that’s what they told me…365 days prior…a torn labrum…but a surgery on something totally different…

“You will want to consider an arthroscopic labral repair procedure.”

I left that office and cried. Maybe wailed is more accurate. I had never felt so confused and misguided. That day, I didn’t understand.

Today, I still don’t understand. Even when someone asks me what happened, why I’m injured, how I got injured, I don’t really know.

I do know this: God doesn’t waste our experiences.

If I had not gone to Florida… I may never have received an MRI.
If I had not been low on PT appointments… I may never have gone to see a doctor in FL.
If I had not visited the doctor I did… I may never have received clarity on my situation.

Learning I had a different injury than what I thought I had shook me to my core. But I firmly believe that time in the Sunshine state was not a coincidence. It pointed me towards healing.