IMPOSSIBLE is NOTHING: Fight Position. Step Forward

IMPOSSIBLE is NOTHING: Fight Position. Step Forward.

This week I got my USA Boxing fit-to-box doctors note! While a little note with a check mark sounds trivial to most, my MG com-padres and peeps in my corner know how much THIS means.

Little over four years ago, I was diagnosed with Myasthenia Gravis (mg) a neuro-muscular illness that in short makes your muscles so weak you can't <insert any verbs here: walk, run, breathe, see , etc..> Yep, good times!

Since then I've been a Warrior of Health, a Crusader of Healing - on a live or die mission to get my body to work again. There's been doctors, tests, meds, nutrition, juice fasts, labs, exams, blood tests, follow ups, meltdowns, tears, fears, more doctors, more juice, more MRIs, CTs,  weird torturous tests,  hiding from people and too many moments of wondering if life would be normal again. Would I be able to take my kid to the park? Travel? drive? Play guitar, take a deep breath, run, sing?  How about chew or just swallow over-cooked pureed broccoli, not see double, not see in triplicate or simply be me again? --OK, honestly I wondered if I'd survive this.

Three years in, my rocker self had (literally and figuratively) gone pear-shaped and while Meds and nutrition were working well enough to function, the scales were tipping for the worse. I needed to do something or else resign that the slippery slope was going to win. The David Bowie in me told me " fake it til you make it" and fast! If I wanted to be healthy, I needed to fake/act healthy.  

As luck would have it and painfully down on luck, there was a boxing club across the street from my office. THIS was a no brainier! IMHO, the toughest motherfuckers are boxers! So on a hot day in June, I dared to walk across the street to Third Street Boxing Gym to see if I could just fake it through one class. Just one.  (crap, just realized I sound like Rocky - one punch, one step, one round. Apologies.)

I stepped inside the door and was greeted by Third Street owner, golden glove Paul Wade. "I know you want to be here" he said. He had no f-n idea. Humbly, pathetically, I made it through one class - barely. The next day, sore as F*#% I signed up for a year. 

I also believe in Neitzsche: "If it doesn't kill you...!"  I was all in!

For the next two to three months, I went. I showed up, desperately trying to keep up with the sit-ups, burpees and rounds of heavy bag. I teared up during class, often - praying it'd pass off as sweat. (So sad.) When I looked defeated a young fighter named Dino told me "It just takes practice. Keep going". The workout was hard. My body hated me. I felt like a lumbering jackass. My head screamed inside "you're six-kinds of messed-up, you're sick, you can't breathe, you fraud, you imbecile, why are you here, go the fuck home!"

Boxing folk are motivational wizards. In time Paul's mantras of "no excuses people", "everybody's got something", "do the hardest thing" started to crush everything else. Sweat became fueled by Ironman Ed's gregarious humor and motivation. Other gym-mate's fist pumps and steady confidence fed me. Third Street was a place of warriors, champs! Despite feeling like a mere shadow of the self I used to be, these crazy people made me feel like I belonged. 

Medically, i'm not supposed to be able to do this. Every time I throw a punch,  I'm supposed to be less able to throw the next one. I won't go as far as to say I don't feel the MG everyday - It's there! I feel it. But in a dark lonely moment when I wanted to run, when I wanted to stop - my (now) trainer, Adolfo, refused to see an ounce of weak in me. He simply said "fight position. Step forward."

So, today I got my "fit-to-box" paperwork. All I know is if I could do this, impossible is nothing!