“Your CPK is highly elevated.”
That was essentially the phone call I got this morning.
Then came the part that got my attention.
The antibiotic being pumped into my body every day to fight the infection in my knee could also be damaging my muscle.
And Fearful Frank lost his fucking mind.
To understand why, you have to understand what the last couple of months have looked like for me.
I had my knee replaced. I worked my ass off recovering from it. I got myself back to walking an average of around 13,000 steps a day. On the day we moved, I actually hit 23,000.
I was feeling strong again.
Then the incision that wouldn’t completely heal turned out to be a staph infection in my new knee.
Back to the hospital.
Another surgery.
Another incision.
A wound vac strapped to my knee.
A PICC line in my arm.
Six weeks of IV antibiotics.
And suddenly I’m back to walking with a cane, watching the muscle disappear from my leg and feeling noticeably less stable than I did before this second surgery.
That’s already been fucking with me.
I’ve worked hard for my body. At 65, having muscle isn’t just about how I look. It’s strength. Independence. Health. Capability.
It’s part of how I experience myself in the world.
So when someone called this morning and essentially told me the drug that’s supposed to be helping save my knee could also be damaging my muscle, there wasn’t just one emotion that showed up.
The whole fucking coalition arrived.
Angry Andy.
Sad Sammy.
Frustrated Freddy.
And, of course, Fearful Frank.
Everybody wanted the microphone.
Part of me was pissed at the medical system.
Part of me was scared about what was happening to my body.
Part of me immediately wanted to take control.
What can I take?
What can I change?
What can I do to stop this?
That’s familiar territory for me.
When fear shows up, my instinct is usually to solve the problem as quickly as possible.
But something different happened today.
I asked for the numbers.
Because “highly elevated” isn’t a number.
And I’ve learned enough over the years to know that somebody else’s interpretation of my body isn’t the same thing as understanding what’s actually happening in my body.
So I asked the pharmacy to send me the labs.
My CPK was 698.
Then I got the previous result.
A week earlier it had been 439.
Okay.
Now we had something real to talk about.
There was an actual change happening.
My fear hadn’t invented the signal.
But Fearful Frank had done what fear is really fucking good at doing.
He took one piece of information and immediately wrote the rest of the story.
The antibiotic is eating my muscle.
My leg is wasting away.
I’m getting weaker.
What if they can’t get rid of this infection?
What if the treatment that saves one part of my body damages another?
What if…
What if…
What if…
And here’s what I’m beginning to understand.
Fear isn’t always wrong.
Sometimes fear sees something before I completely understand it.
The problem comes when I let fear take a piece of information and turn it into a conclusion.
So instead of ignoring Fearful Frank, I listened to him.
Then I kept asking questions.
I spoke with my medical team.
They decided to take me off the daptomycin and put me back on vancomycin, the antibiotic I was receiving in the hospital. I’ll now administer that through my PICC line every 12 hours, and they’ll continue drawing my labs every week to see what my body is actually doing.
So tonight I don’t have the ending.
I don’t know what next Monday’s CPK will be.
I don’t know how quickly my strength will return.
I don’t know exactly how much of what I’m feeling is from surgery, how much is from inactivity, how much may have been from the medication, or what the next several weeks of recovery are going to look like.
And I don’t need to pretend that I do.
That’s probably the biggest thing that happened today.
Because underneath all of this, strangely, there’s still calm.
I’m scared.
I’m angry.
I’m frustrated.
I’m grateful.
And I’m calm.
All at the same fucking time.
For a long time I think I believed being centered meant getting rid of the uncomfortable emotions.
That somehow the spiritually evolved version of me wouldn’t be afraid.
King Colin wouldn’t get rattled.
He’d stay centered.
He’d know what to do.
I’m starting to think that’s bullshit.
Maybe being grounded isn’t about Fearful Frank disappearing.
Maybe it’s being able to look down and realize he’s standing right beside me, scared shitless, and instead of trying to get rid of him, I take his hand.
Come on, Frank.
You can come with me.
But I’m driving.
Angry Andy can come too.
So can Sad Sammy and Frustrated Freddy.
Apparently we’re taking the whole fucking family.
Because they’re all me.
And maybe becoming Colin isn’t about finally getting all of these parts of me under control.
Maybe it’s becoming the man capable of holding all of them without allowing any one of them to become him.
Something else happened today that mattered.
I had one of my Marco Polo conversations with my buddy Adam.
I’ve been watching what friendship and brotherhood look like differently lately, and Adam has become an interesting example for me.
From what I can see—and obviously none of us ever completely knows another person’s life—he’s built something I haven’t seen modeled very often.
A successful business.
A beautiful relationship.
His health.
An active life.
And meaningful friendships with other men.
I’ve known plenty of successful men.
Sometimes the business is incredible and their body looks like shit.
Sometimes the body looks incredible and the marriage is falling apart behind closed doors.
Sometimes they’re making millions of dollars and have nobody they can actually call when life gets real.
I know that because in different ways I’ve been that man too.
What Adam is showing me isn’t that I need his life.
He’s showing me evidence that perhaps I don’t have to sacrifice one part of myself to succeed in another.
Maybe I get to build my version of a whole life.
That’s encouraging to me right now because there are a hell of a lot of pieces moving at once.
My health.
My marriage.
My business.
My finances.
My friendships.
My identity.
And apparently my fucking CPK.
I don’t have all the answers to any of them.
But tonight I know something I didn’t completely understand this morning.
Fear doesn’t have to be my enemy.
Fear can get my attention.
Fear can tell me to look closer.
Fear can even be right that something needs my attention.
But fear doesn’t get to take incomplete information and decide what happens next.
Fear can have a seat at the table.
It just doesn’t get the deciding vote.
This morning I said something in my private journal that feels even more true tonight.
My job isn’t to get rid of Angry Andy, Sad Sammy, Frustrated Freddy or Fearful Frank.
My job is to have enough capacity and compassion for all of them to walk beside me, holding their hands, while I continue moving forward.
Ask the questions.
Get the facts.
Make the next decision.
And then keep walking.
I don’t have to feel okay to know that I’m going to be okay.
Tonight I’m grateful to be alive.
I’m grateful I’m still here experiencing all of it.
The fear.
The anger.
The frustration.
The uncertainty.
And somehow, underneath all of it, the peace.
I’m still here.
Still fighting the good fight.
Still becoming.
Colin F. Watson