David H Janda - The Awakening of a Surgeon: A Life of Prevention, Health, and Hope

Revised edition 2010 David H. Janda, MD

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to:

David H. Janda, MD
The Michigan Orthopaedic Center
5315 Elliott Dr.
Suite 301
Ypsilanti, MI 48197

Printed and bound in the U.S.A.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
ISBN: 978-1-58726-663-8

O ver the past decade and a half my friends have suggested I write a book about my experiencesthe good, the bad, and the uglythat I have encountered on my journey and awakening on the sports injury prevention front. At first I brushed them aside, but as the years and the experiences grew, I concluded maybe, with the right set of circumstances and partners, I would one day put pen to paper. A friend of mine who happens to be a fantastic author, Jim Dodson, told me Dave, someday the right set of circumstances will occur and your gut will tell you to go for it.

The writing and preparation of this book unknowingly started in 1988 when I first met Rich Cantrall when he was the Director of Public Relations for the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons. Through the years, Rich has been a steadfast supporter of all of my efforts and those of the Institutes. Little did both of us know that our initial efforts on informing the public about injury prevention a decade and a half ago would lead to the collaboration on this manuscript. Without Richs literary and editorial talents, the manuscript never would have seen the light of day.

When I fast-forward over the past decade and a half, there are hundreds of individuals who have been instrumental in our success with the Institute and with injury prevention. You will meet some of our army in the coming pages. But several individuals have truly dedicated themselves to our efforts. Dr. David Viano has been a pillar of support and donated countless hours to our injury prevention efforts. In addition, Ms. Beth Kedroske has worked tirelessly in getting the Institute to a higher plane. Without their help and support I never could have freed myself up to take the time to put pen to paper.

The darker side of the driving force behind my efforts on injury prevention, the Institute, and this book, have been the naysayers, the obstructionists, and the visionless insurance industry which have attempted to block our efforts on prevention. Through their obstructionist efforts over the years I became even more driven and determined to bring our message to the public.

Most importantly, the foundation and superstructure of this book and the efforts behind it all emanate from my family. My parents, Ben and Ruth Janda, my wife Libby, and our two beautiful daughters, Allison and Katie, are the inspiration and driving force of my life, my efforts, and this book. The Janda Fab Five have guided and counseled me throughout my journey.

Without their help, and support, my efforts would have been for naught. I truly have been blessed to have them as a part of my life and as my best friends.

My mother, the first lady of inspiration, gave me a writing by Robert J. Hastings entitled The Station. I believe our efforts at the Institute and this book are exemplified by this writing:

Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are travelingby train. Out the windows we drink in the passing scene of cars on the nearby highway, of children waving at the crossing, of cattle grazing at a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylights and village halls.

But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day, at a certain hour we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we get there so many wonderful dreams will come true, and the pieces of our lives will fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes for loiteringwaiting, waiting, waiting for the station.

When we reach the station, that will be it! we cry. When I am eighteen. When I buy a new 450SL Mercedes Benz! When I put the last kid through college. When I have paid off the mortgage! When I get a promotion. When I reach the age of retirement, I shall live happily ever after!

Sooner or later we must realize there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.

Relish the moment is a good motto, especially when coupled with Psalm 1-18:24 This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it. It isnt the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tomorrow. Regret and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today.

So, stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.

Hopefully, at the end of The Awakening of a Surgeon, you will be inspired to travel on your own journey by Dreaming Big and Daring to Fail!

God Himself does not speak prose, but communicates with us by hints, omens, inference and dark resemblances in objects lying all around us.

Chicago, July 28, 1989

I t was one of those dog days when the heat seems to rise in waves over you. I lay in the backseat of my dads new Deville enveloped in a suffocating shroud of stale, still air. The sweat clung to my skin like soot. A blast from the air-conditioner hit me flush and sent a shiver down my spine. I pulled on my sweater and wrapped myself in a blanket. Then I huddled in a corner. I felt parched, feverish, and chilly all at the same time. Though my health mattered, my thoughts were completely consumed by my 11-month-old daughter Allison and her bone marrow results.

The fever made my head spin as I lost my thought in a fog. I couldnt concentrate. I thought I was a kid again, sitting in the backseat of my dads old Chevy traveling through the Mojave

Desert for mile after barren mile of miserable mind-numbing heat and blistering sun. It was our summer vacation, and the Chevy, with its broken down air-conditioner and vinyl seats that pinched me and peeled my skin, was the kind of car Dad drove all his life before giving himself the Deville on his retirement.

I shivered again and wrapped the blanket tighter. Nobody spoke and the silence seemed strange. Dad and Mom always talked on our trips. Mom, a retired history teacher, regaled us with her updates on world events, while Dad, the former president of a large construction company, spoke untiringly about the stock market, and business, and sports. They were great conversationalists. But now none of us said a word. Even the radio remained eerily silent.