Death Clutch - Brock Lesnar [66]
Rena was standing behind me, and I heard her whisper, “You are.”
I was being sarcastic. She wasn’t.
It was at that very minute when I turned the corner and decided that I was going to get back on the horse. No more feeling sorry for myself. It was time to take control of everything again. If I was going to retire, I was going to retire on my own terms, not because some stupid illness took me out.
A hole in my stomach. I still can’t believe it.
A couple of weeks later, I went to the Mayo Clinic to get a complete evaluation. It usually takes a lot longer than that to get into the world-famous Mayo, but Dana called my lawyers with some contacts, and through those connections I was moved up on the list.
After what seemed like an endless series of tests, the Mayo doctors informed me that my best chance for a full recovery would be to have surgery. They wanted to remove about twelve inches of my colon. I wanted to know what my second-best chance was, because there is no way I was going to let them cut me up.
The doctors said I was out of immediate danger, so we could always do the surgery later. That was good enough for me.
I asked if I could exercise, and they told me it would be okay, as long as I didn’t overexert myself. Of course, that meant I was in the gym the next day, but I was smart. All I did was walk on the treadmill a little bit. It beat the hell out of a wheelchair, and at least I was doing something.
You should have seen me. I looked like shit. I kept looking at an old picture of me when I wrestled in college at 260 pounds. I was lean and strong. Looking the way I looked in that picture again became my goal.
I had to get back into shape, and that meant a complete lifestyle change. It would defeat the purpose of my recovery to bulk back up, and end up with the same holes in my stomach that almost killed me the first time. I don’t respect any of my opponents, but I have a lot of respect for diverticulitis. Me and diverticulitis went the distance, and I have no desire for a rematch.
I changed my diet completely. More vegetables. A whole lot more fiber. Nothing processed or preserved.
Then I started to do a little more in the gym each day. Cardio. A few light weights. A little more each day.
I approached my illness the same way that I approach a fight. I wanted to beat it. I wanted to take my illness down to the mat the same way I took down Frank Mir at UFC 100. I was in the fight of my life, and every day was another round.
When I returned to the Mayo Clinic for a checkup in January 2010, they gave me another CT scan. The doctors couldn’t believe what they saw. They couldn’t believe my stomach could heal without surgery the way that it did. They called it a remarkable recovery.
I wish I could express how that news made me feel. I didn’t have to have my guts cut open. I didn’t have to wear a colostomy bag. I could play with my kids, be the man that I was, only smarter, better, healthier. I had been given a new lease on life.
I was truly a man who had been blessed by God.
My wonderful wife showed me, once again, that she was going to stick by me no matter what. I had two healthy children, and had just learned that a third, my son Duke, was on the way. I was going to fight again. And now I had a newfound focus: I was determined to come back from my illness better and stronger than ever. Never again would I take the physical gifts God had given me for granted.
As much as I couldn’t wait to get back into