My eyes open for the first time since being strapped onto the operating room table. I’m sore and nauseous, but these senses have been temporarily overshadowed by severe cotton mouth and blurred vision. The recovery nurse realizes my conscious state and promptly offers the most refreshing cup of water ever to cross my lips. She then precedes to wipe the jelly from my eyes and the room slowly comes into focus though it’s spinning at a sickening rate due to the fading effects of anesthesia. Nausea is now my nemesis… until the first dry heave. The 6 inch incision through my abdominal wall quickly steals the spotlight. I close my eyes to escape the cyclonic world around me. I had a great nurse who was attentive to my needs even without verbal communication past the wrenching sound of me heaving immediately followed by winces of pain. She quickly delivered a pharmaceutical cocktail that settled the overwhelming sickness and deadened the charged nerves just above my groin. Although I was physically bound to bed, my mind was racing to figure out the why’s and what now’s.

It was 70 days to my 23^rd birthday. That meant I had a solid 15 years of riding and racing motorcycles. So why did I release the rear brake after it seized the rear wheel fishtailing my 300lb bike to a stop? Anyone with my seat time, or formal riding education knows to ride a rear wheel skid to a stop. But this one time I released it allowing the gyroscopic action from the wheels to violently correct the direction of travel pitching me like a dog shaking water from its coat. I’d had far worse accidents in the past, but something about this one was different. The pain was something I’ve never felt. Not a break or a bruise, but a burn from the inside out. Nothing else seemed out of place other than the pieces of motorcycle now scattered all over the track. I sucked up the pain and gathered my proverbial yard sale into the trailer I used to haul bikes to and from the track. Days turned to weeks, the soreness subsided, and everything seemed back to normal. That’s when I found the bulge of an inguinal hernia.

There was a familiar voice, “Richard, How are you feeling?” It was my mom, but in the moment her significance didn’t register. I make an attempt to speak for the first time, but I’m still uncertain of what really came out. She said “The nurse says we can go as soon as you feel up to it.” I simply shook my head no since removing myself from this bed was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. What scared me even more was my absence of health insurance. I was a server and bartender in those days. It was common to end shifts with up to $1000, but seldom less than $200 cash in my pocket. Florida’s Space Coast was a great place to live virtually tax free on tip money alone. A little charisma and knowledge of who would patronize what establishments during what seasons was all a young person needed to be successful. During the spring and summer I would work the bars on the beach, or near the docks where the gambling ships would offload in Port Canaveral. During the fall and winter I would move inland to more established chains like Outback or Carraba’s and rely on retirees that call that area home, or the northerners who snowbird to escape the harsh winters of whatever state they might call home. This was a great hustle, and 25’ish hours a week made a substantial living compared to my peers. Rent, utilities, and car insurance were all covered within 3-4 shifts, leaving thousands of dollars a month burning a hole in my pocket. Because let’s be honest,  when you’re 22 living in Cocoa Beach, FL, things like healthcare plans and savings are hardly atop the list of priorities. At this particular moment I wasn’t sure if my drugged and injured body, or the ever increasing medical debt I would soon face was the cause of increased specific gravity felt in that bed. From my initial visit to the family practice doctor through the follow ups and prescriptions still to come, I knew significant change was upon me. I felt this had been a conscious thought that flashed before me in a matter of seconds, but it had really been a moment of somnambulism as a sharp pain brought me back to reality. A medical aide and my mother were helping me transfer from the wheelchair to the front seat of her Chevy Blazer. I had no recollection of getting fully dressed, but there I was fully clothed aside from socks and shoes that were instead replaced with flip flops in true Florida fashion.

I wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk, climb stairs, or even drive a car for the next 6 weeks. None of these things stopped the world around me, and I was soon buried in the expected debt with no income to appease the beast of burden. As I convalesced and friends would visit, I couldn’t help but look at their lives from a perspective not before imagined. Most made their living hustling the hospitality industry in the same fashion I did, because you know the old birds of a feather adage. One friend in particular was different. Ryan seemed to have it right. He drove a late model sports car, had a nice apartment where he lived alone, and his gear whether surfing, fishing or whatever was always a step above the rest of the groups. Ryan was a Staff Sargent (E-5) in the Air Force. The more time I spent with Ryan the more I was impressed by the way he frankly had his shit together. By the end of Aug I was driving, and back to work. I was still good friends with Ryan, but just couldn’t bring myself to ask him directly about his existence. Instead I found my local recruiter and less than a year later was on my way to basic training. This was July 2001.