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Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
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HAIRSHIRT Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery |
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Friday, September 28, 2007Diagnosis: Pussy
So my visit to the orthopedic doc on Thursday was both a relief and a giant anti-climax. It also offered none of the insta-cure that I'd been hoping for, preferably in the form of a citrus-flavored leg-healing Miraclo pill that would also grant me super-strength for an hour at a time.
Walking into the office, I was faced with the receptionist. I truly should not be disparaging of this young woman, as she really seemed to be doing her best to make everyone's morning a little brighter and she was the Spock-with-goatee version of your typical glowering New York medical office worker. But dealing with someone that fucking chipper when you've just limped over from 57th and Broadway just makes your discomfort all that much lamer (no pun intended, but I'll take 'em if they just fall in my lap like that.) The doctor was late, of course, which meant that I got to sit back, read my magazine and enjoy the frustration of the uptight cubicle-dweller who hadn't had the foresight to take the full day off, like me. I'm ever so clever that way. This lady was clearly in a big-ass hurry and had not time to waste on health care. She angrily tossed her coat here and she testily handed over her insurance card there. And she ended up walking out as huffily as she could manage about two minutes before the doctor finally showed. When my turn came, Little Mary Sunshine escorted me back to the examination room making small-talk I was too goddamn rude to maintain. The doctor breezed in a few minutes later and took a fairly perfunctory look at my leg. He noted that my right hamstring was "all tight and shit," and then he did an ultrasound on it. Having been swimming in infertility issues for nearly two years, this did not exactly bring happy thoughts to my head. After the briefest of scans, though, he told me I had a strained hamstring. Nothing more. Did it while running, he guessed. I asked him if it was really possible to strain one's hamstring while running a few miles a few times a week, averaging a speed at which one routinely gets lapped by 85-year-olds out speed-walking. He seemed to believe such a thing was indeed possible. So the diagnosis comes down to this: I'm a huge pussy. All my worries about sciatica or a gigantic tumor or a flesh-eating virus that had mysteriously begun its nefarious work inside my thigh were for naught. Instead, I just wasn't doing enough stretches before I ran. He really did describe this as "no big deal". I asked him, just to clarify what a quivering-chinned little cowardly eunuch I am, if this "strained hamstring" could cause excruciating fucking pain. He implied that it most definitely could. Which made me feel slightly less wuss-tastic, but not by much. He told me I needed physical therapy and gave me a prescription for a stronger anti-inflammatory than the useless fucking over the counter shit I'd been taking, although he sort of made it sound like I was pathetic if I then used the meds. Which I am. I am, then, still gimping it up. But at least I know that I don't have some weird new leg-eating termite. 'Cause I hear those little fuckers are nasty.
Comments:
I don't know, I think "I pulled a hamstring while out running" sounds kind of tough.
Nobody needs to know you were chugging along like a grandma when it happened.
I'm really sorry about your pain. I hurt myself last night actually, playing roller derby. So I do not berate your pain.
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But when you wrote your diagnosis, I just laughed a little too loud in my own land of cubicles, enough to have 2 people "shh" me. Nice.
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