I left my house for the first time in a week today and found out that I need more tests.
I had to take car service into Manhattan because my aching back can’t handle riding the subway. Hell, I can’t even handle the subway stairs.
It was so strange being in the real world after my week-long house arrest. We rode by my office, by the street where my gym was located and I kept wondering why I wasn’t out there with the rest of the working stiffs, making the walk from my health club to my office building on Broadway.
People looking at me might have thought I was some big shot riding in the back of this car while the peons did the mass transit routine. If they only knew…
My doctor tells me that I am not responding to the 7-day steroid bomb treatment that he prescribed for me, so I have to get another MRI.
I had one of these tests last year and it was decidedly unpleasant. You’re basically sandwiched within this monstrous machine that takes photos of your innards. It felt like it was never going to end.
“I worried I’m going to be a cripple,” I blurted. “Am I going to wind up in a wheel chair?”
My doctor didn’t give me the vigorous dismissal I was looking for; the old “of-course-you-won’t” routine I so desperately wanted to hear. And, truthfully, that’s not his job. He’s a doctor, not a fortuneteller.
“Do you need a cane or a walker?”
A walker? Oh, come on. Yes, it hurts like hell every time I take a step, yes, I’m stomping around like Long John Silver on three-day rum bender, but, Christ, I don’t need no stinking walker….yet.
Both my parents had to use walkers in their final years, so the very mention of this piece of equipment scares the hell out of me.
Avast there, Matey!
My doctor said I should be prepared to discuss the possibility of such treatments as cortisone shots and surgery. Neither appeals to me, but my current state isn’t sustainable either.
It’s weird being out on the street and lurching from streetlight to park bench, while I fume and curse beneath my breath. Jesus, I’m starting to sound like a pirate.
I glare at the people around me, walking by as if everything is perfectly normal. Don’t they see how I’m suffering? Can’t they see how much trouble I have walking?
But then I realize that I’ve seen people in a similar or worse condition countless times and what did I do? I kept walking, of course, and pretended everything was perfectly normal.
The world is a hostile place when you’re not in top condition. A few years ago, brain dead teajahdist Ron Paul bitched that the Americans With Disabilities Act was unfair to business owners—yes, business owners—because it forces them to put in pesky things like elevators and ramps for people in wheelchairs.
Speaking as someone who now has a great deal of trouble walking, I want to know what kind of piece of excrement would have to be forced to make these accommodations?
Wouldn’t a decent business owner want all of his employees to be able to get around with relative ease? When did looking out for each other become such a terrible blow to capitalism?
I’ve been taking Oxycontin, Rush Limbaugh’s drug of choice, but I’m getting mine legally. This is about the only thing I have in common with that rightwing blowhard and I aim to quit as soon as I can.
I declined my doctor’s office to get a stronger dose of painkiller. What’s a good Catholic boy to do without pain?
I’ve been routinely deleting these various event emails I’ve been receiving. What’s the point? I know I won’t be able to go anywhere. Or, more accurately, I don’t want to be struck with crippling pain miles from my home.
So my exile continues and I don’t even need an ankle bracelet. I’m scheduled to go to a massage therapist on Saturday and I’m hoping I make some progress. And I hope it lasts.