It’s been a long day. I awoke early because I wanted to get some work done before my 2:00pm doctor’s appointment in Santa Monica. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. I felt better today than I have the previous four days. Whatever remnants of my weekend illness have dissipated to bearable levels. I walked across the street for a latte, did whatever work I could do without getting anything really accomplished, and at about 12:45 I headed out across town.
Never having been to a sports medicine doctor before, I wasn’t really sure what to expect. In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen an orthopedist before was when I worked for one in New York City when I was 16 years old. I assumed that my nagging calf injury (which occurred back in early January, about a month after the Vegas marathon) was some wussy little thing that would get me laughed out of a professional sports doctor’s office. Then I stepped foot inside and everything changed.
There’s something about doctors that scares the shit out of me. It might stem from the fact that 360+ days of the year I’m in fine fettle, so those couple days when something is wrong amplifies the feeling that SOMETHING IS WRONG. It could also stem from the fact that I’m a complete hypochondriac, and that “something is wrong” generally means HOLY SHIT I’M GOING TO DIE!!!!!
It’s totally embarrassing, but between the time I sat down in the waiting room until the time my doctor first approached me, my attitude went from “Why am I here? There’s nothing wrong with me!” to “Holy shit am I going to be rushed into surgery in a matter of minutes? WHAT IS THERE’S SOMETHING HORRIBLE WRONG WITH ME.”
Bearing that in mind, I now present you with all the text messages I exchanged with my mother over the course of the next four hours.
Four hours, you ask?
Well, yes. After a series of X-rays on my left calf, the doctor suggested an immediate MRI in order to figure out if there’s a stress fracture somewhere in my leg below the knee. Having never in my life once given thought to needing an MRI for ANYTHING, my medical anxiety levels reached incredible new heights. I have no problem sharing this personal conversation with a family member with you, my audience, because it also serves as a reminder that I’m a real person with anxieties and phobias (and a sense of humor about it), not just an asshole who blogs like he’s an impenetrable fortress of toughness and douchebaggery.
Take a look:
The answer is, yes. I met a friend for lunch in Santa Monica and then headed back across town, during rush hour, which only took…about…two hours? That sucked. Hopefully tomorrow will be better. Hopefully next week I’ll learn the results of the MRI, and I can put this whole nightmare behind me. I’m bored not waking up early to go run around town. This stationary life doesn’t fit me very well.
By the way, the whole MRI thing wasn’t as terrifying as I thought it would be. Yes, it felt like being buried alive. The hardest part of the whole thing was trying to stay perfectly still during the process. You never really think about it in everyday life, but when you’re acutely aware of all the little ticks and spasms of your muscles it seems like “perfectly still” doesn’t exist. Like perfect silence. The technician said I did just fine, but I swear to God it felt like my legs were innately moving for the entire 45-50 minutes I was in the machine, no matter how hard I concentrated on not moving. It was really weird.
Minny Pops – M.D. Mania [MP3]
