Bring Good Things

1.2.2015

I gave up on competitive discus throwing too late, and my aching shoulder reminded me of it constantly.  And since it was my coffee cup and beer can hoisting shoulder, it was a real nuisance.  Sometimes it really hurt, and my neoprene-shrouded Miller Lite® can didn't quite make it to my beer hole and instead bobbed just out of reach while I grimaced in pain and died of thirst.

After a few months of discomfort and dehydration, I sought out a shoulder doctor.  I found one and he too was a former discus thrower and he knew what I was going through.  He first suggested an X-ray, which he did with his phone, and it concluded I had bones in my shoulder.  He somehow expected to see bones, which was comforting.  He didn't see anything that indicated the source of my pain.  "We've got to get a look at the soft stuff," he said, and I was off to the MRI.

I got stuffed into the big, loud cannoli MRI machine and was left in there as the techs flirted with each other a while then broke for lunch.  I had my eyes closed the whole time because although I'm not claustrophobic I wasn't taking any chances.  And because my eyes were closed for an hour or so and because I dig white noise, I nodded off for a while.  The randy technicians must have returned because a metallic voice from the speaker in the machine said, "Are you sleeping?"  I said yeah.  "Drool fucks up the imager," the voice said.  "Did I drool on my shoulder?" I said.  After a while the voice said, "We​'re good," and the clanking stopped and the tray I was on retracted out of the "imager." 

I forgot about the entire ordeal until the doctor's office called me in days later.  The doc showed me a weird video and said it was my shoulder and he didn't see anything ripped or torn or shredded.  I said good but that's what it still feels like.  He said wait here a second.

He returned with a huge hypodermic needle and he said, "this is my new recipe," while injecting it into my back.  He must have put the whole quart in, because I felt like I was smuggling a water balloon under my skin.  "The sensation will subside shortly," he said, and started a stop watch.

While he watched the clock, I said, "While I have you, can you tell me something?"  He said sure and I said, "All my joints crack and pop loudly.  Especially my ankle joints.  They sometimes sound like gunshots."

"Yes?" he said.

"Is there anything wrong with that?  Is anything "bad" happening?" I said.

"No," he said, "nothing.  My joints pop too."

"Well, I'm glad nothing bad is happening," I said, "but it makes it really tough to sneak up on people."

Tonight - Elixir Saloon  (by request)


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!