I apologize that I’ve taken a while to post this blog. It’s a good reflection of where I was about a month ago. I’m still training and still trying to regain the form I had in December, but the questions of health persist. I will attempt to catch you up soon.

I saw my doctor nine days after I left the hospital. It was sooner than he’d like, but my mother wanted to hear what he thought, and she would have been on her way back to New Hampshire if we’d waited the usual 15 days. But really, what difference did six days make? To the doctor it meant a lot. As he looked at me, wearing jeans for the first time since I’d left the hospital at which time I looked like Chris Farley complete with my distended gut hanging over belt. In the doctor’s office my gut no longer hung over my belt, greatly relieving my doctor. He’d worried that this visit might be about theory—about how he thought my recovery might go, and much of my time in the hospital consisted of how the doctors thought my recovery might go—but he didn’t need to worry, my recovery had already started. He said that I was well ahead of schedule. He even agreed to let me start spinning on my trainer—a bike stand that turned my three-wheeler into a stationary bike.

Talk about great news. I had assumed that I would need a strong lobby to start spinning in the beginning of March. I was already two weeks ahead and planned to train when I arrived home. Midway through lunch, exhaustion rolled in like a fog. My doctor said I was well ahead of schedule, but my body said I needed a nap. I headed straight for the couch upon returning home. The training session—yes I’d let myself start to dream—turned into a three-hour nap. My doctor’s appointment was on Wednesday. I wouldn’t get onto my trainer until Sunday, and then it felt like I climbed uphill in deep mud. Prior to my hospital vacation, I’d tried to rig the internal hub into the highest gear—increasing the resistance. Now, on the lowest gear I felt like I pedaled the final 15 minutes of an eight-hour day during which I’d bonked. I stared at the pedals, willing them to move, surprised each time they did—literally One Revolution.

I made it 15 minutes that first day. The next day I made it a half hour, actually breaking a sweat. Today, eight days later, I finally started to move—not fly, but the wheel on the trainer makes a whining sound when I get to speed. Prior to my sickness, I had to turn the TV all the way up to hear a show. Those first few days I left the volume on the regular level, but for the first time today I heard the whine. It didn’t progress to a scream, but whine was good. A whine was a start. Sweat materialized on my hairline. I breathed hard, feeling the effects of all those days when the pressure in my stomach extended to my diaphragm. When I yawn, the inhale comes in ratcheted gasps, as if I’m breaking scar tissue or stretching my ribs and lungs to get air in quickly. That threshold between full breathing and small sips of air represents recovery. As I pedal I set my jaw slightly off-center, allowing my incisors to rest on each other propping my mouth open to allow full airflow.

Building back the muscle and stretching my lungs are small steps. Figuring out how to avoid the problem that landed me in the hospital is a much bigger one. My surgeon returned my stomach close to normal. I am relatively healthy. He said that his expertise stops there. Even though no one has given me a concrete answer on what caused the problem, I’m convinced it lies with the urinary tract infections and the antibiotics used to kill them. I must have run an infection 90 percent of the time, only treating the full-blown ones. The UTIs drained my energy and the antibiotics stripped my digestive system. So going to the root, how do I stop the UTIs? I don’t know, but I’m starting to ask questions of the rehab doctors, the urologists, and I’m starting to poke around on the internet. I’m not convinced that there are tried and true answers—I welcome suggestions, especially those that work—just solutions that have worked for certain people.

From the beginning I’ve said that I wanted to be healthy, and as I feel better I need to remember to dig to the root of the problem. I see athletes, most notably Allan Iverson, with tattoos reminding them of their chosen path. I don’t have a tattoo, but I do have a scar that surprisingly looks just like the One Revolution logo. The incision jogged around my belly button (at one point I peeked under the discreet steri-strips, to see if I indeed still had a belly button) creating a mountain like bump, and reducing the size of my belly button, as if this whole thing were just some cosmetic ploy. At the moment, I definitely have a smaller belly button, a reduced belly, arms and chest that make me look 16, and a desire to find the answer. How many times on this journey have I realized that I’m just starting? Here’s one more. I’m sure it won’t be the last.

Side note: In light of the lying, cheating, ridiculous baseball steroids scandal, how great is it that Tiger Woods is returning to competition? On a list of amazing modern athletes, he has to be at the top, not just for his prowess on the golf course, but for his work ethic, his respect for history, his family priorities (he waited for the birth of his son to resume competition), and mostly for his ease in his own skin. I’ve never met Tiger, but I would like to. Welcome back and thank you.