THE ORTHOPEDIST:
Previously I revealed that after 34 years together, my ACL and I parted ways. Perhaps you’re reading this because you’re mourning a similar breakup, but you’re moving on.
Ok, so you’ve decided that you’re not going to rest on your laurels, sitting on the sidelines watching life pass you by. If Roger Goodell shows up at your house and invites you to participate in the Punt, Pass and Kick Competition (despite being 34 years old), damnit, you’re gonna be ready. What next?
You need to find a good orthopedist. Orthopedics is the branch of medicine that deals with the prevention or correction of injuries or disorders of the skeletal system and associated muscles, joints, and ligaments. They also specialize is separating money from patients. Also, pay close attention when you’re vetting candidates; you don’t want to mistakenly schedule with an “orthopedophile”.
If you’re first visit is anything like mine, here is what will happen (slightly dramatized). After entering the doctor’s office you’ll shuffle towards the sign-in desk, taking note of the signed posters from athletes that adorn the walls. Inevitably you’ll be interrupting the receptionist, whose sole job is to silently communicate that she is grossly underpaid, systematically overworked, and will be taking it out on you. After approximately three minutes of standing and waiting she’ll ever-so-slightly peel her headset away from her ear to field your pathetic question. Using a combination of eye rolls, scowls and squinting you’ll walk away assured that filling out 35 pages of paperwork is a decidedly better fate than the face-to-face persecution of the front desk. If the pen runs out of ink, just use blood.
You thumb through the forms, scouring your brain for your entire family’s medical history. Did Uncle Pete have Diabetes, or was it Syphilis? What about Grandma Patty? Didn’t she have shingles or was she just always pissed off at Grandpa Jack? At this point you may reconsider heckling the TV screen every time an Ancestry.com ad airs.
Q. How many drinks to you have per week?
A. Uhhhh, do you mean how many ounces of alcohol do I consume or how many drinks? Five….steins….of whiskey.
Q. Yes or No: Your injury is a result of either a sports activity or being raped by a grizzly bear.
A. Yes?? Jeez, that’s a weird question. See comments section – injury does NOT involve ursine rape.
Q. Are you allergic to any medicines, iodine, nuts, gluten, or latex (please refrain from condom jokes)?
A. Yes, I’m allergic to nuts and latex so tell your rape-y bear that he’s out of luck.
Q. If you were stuck on a desert island, what three albums would you bring?
A. 1) Built to Spill – Perfect From Now On, 2) Beastie Boys – Check Your Head, 3)….wait, this is bullshit. Either my iPod is with me or I’m dead. I decline to answer.
You finally complete your medical dissertation, brave the front desk turning it in and now it’s time to meet the doctor. Here is where you get down to brass tacks. The doctor has reviewed the first line from Page 1 of your dissertation, thus he knows your name.
Doctor: So, Sean, what happened?
Me: Well first, have you ever seen Bloodsport? You know the last fight when Frank Dux fights Chong Li and he does, like, fifty consecutive helicopter kicks WHILE BLIND?! It was kind of like that except nobody was near me and it was a coed soccer game in a league that is essentially sponsored by Bud Light and Tinder.
Assuming the doctor doesn’t engage in a 30-minute conversation debating the merits of Jean-Claude Van Damme’s film career, he will instead perform a simple “knee jerk” test. Holding the upper leg steady, he pushes and pulls the shin to measure the relative displacement. In my case, he actually used a device called a KT1000 which delivers quantitative measurements of the displacement and a sizeable bill as well. As you’ll recall, going into this I was 99% sure that nothing was wrong and I was only there to confirm my self-diagnosis which was based on my extensive knowledge that I did not want to be injured.
Instead, the doctor’s initial suspicion was confirmed by the KT1000 and he reluctantly, but assuredly delivered by the bad news. “You have a torn ACL,” to which I replied….
He could just as well have told me that “math is a lie,” or that the first season of The O.C. wasn’t “the best thing to happen to television in the last quarter-century.” He had just achieved Quack: Level 1000 in my book, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to redeem himself. Regardless, he insisted that we take some x-rays to ensure there were no bone spurs that might complicate the situation. Half-heartedly I arose from the table and meekly paced towards the other end of the office like a sedated cow. I don’t care anymore, just moooooo-ve the fuck outta my way.
So distraught by the news, I didn’t even have the capacity to ask any pertinent questions. Instead, I gathered various brochures and handouts on surgery options, MRI requirements, and then made arrangements for the MRI.
Is it too late to take the bear rape option?
Stay Tuned: Magnetic Resonance Imaging is crazy. MRI-ght?
