Yesterday I had my first follow-up with the sports doctor since PT began. He wasn’t sure what to expect after just four weeks given how bad the injury was. When I went in to see him for the first time, I could barely walk. The nurses kept watching me, probably ready to act in case I passed out. They’d try to ask background questions but at times it was too painful to speak. I would just stare back, clenching teeth, and they would tell me not to worry about it. I could tell that just looking at me made them uncomfortable. I wonder if that’s the case for everyone around me as I recover from this.

Eventually people will have their health insurance info implanted in their arm for moments like those. Though I guess that’d be problematic if you’re in there for having your arm pulled off.

The early timeline was:

1. Day of injury
2. Day after injury, pain nearly intolerable, difficult to get up from horizontal position.
3. Third day, I had a date at the MoMA that I didn’t want to break so I dragged ass into a pharmacy, sweating bullets, and tried an over-the-counter pain medicine that was recommended for backs. Brutal pain radiating down my left leg, hindering movement, thoughts, attitude. Everything. I tried to hide it as much as possible, unsuccessfully. Short date.
4. Forth day, after injury, into the sports doctor’s world. Vicodin and 5 day followup. Home in agony.
5. Agony.
6. Agony.
7. Agony.
8. Agony.
9. Followup: Oxycodone, PT.

So the followup was quick and simple. Better yet? Nope. Worse? Nope. OK, more PT. Need drugs? Nope. OK, come back in four weeks.

I joke with my PT now that it’s been a few weeks.

OD: “You’re just trying to keep me in here, aren’t you.”

PT: “Why would I want a man with a broken back around?”

OD: “Because that way you could order me around and I’d have to obey. I’m all vulnerable and shit.”

PT: “You’re onto me. Now tell me if this hurts.”

<ZOOOOOW!%#$@$>

PT: “You’re not better yet, I guess you will need to stay.”

My PT is strong, an ex-college super star athlete. She’s my same height and has forearms that would look great with tattoos. I’ve only seen her smile twice. The first time was when I demonstrated how I get up from a flat position. I was pretty sure PTs weren’t supposed to make fun of their patients, but she had no problem with it.

“Well, that was creative. How about you just do this…”

The second time was on purpose. I asked if she could put the soft-tissue-stimulation electrodes on my head to work my ear-wiggle muscles. She began to do it before laughing aloud. I said I commanded it as the patient. She said I could do it on my own at home and stop joking or she’ll make sure I never get better. Obviously, I like her. She’s really helping me.

When I go in there I see all these fat, miserable, injured people. Big fat guys with knee problems, swollen feet. Big fat women with neck braces. They complain about pain, they complain to the PTs about what they can’t do. You know what, for most of them, I bet even if they were healthy they probably wouldn’t be able to do much, and they probably didn’t do very much before they got messed up. That’s how people end up looking like marshmallows. I could never be a PT. I’d be too sickened every day. I’d get fired or suspended or de-licensed or whatever the fuck on the first day.

I wish I had PT twice a day, every day, instead of just 3X/wk. I feel great for about two hours after a session. As I cool down, the stiffness and pain returns and I get depressed. Spending lots of time that way, lately. Maybe it’s good for me. Depression used to be one of my greatest attributes.