Do some dates bear little circles? Halos. Our actual birthdays, of course, not remembered, that is in your Birthday Suit, but who’s to say what the future holds, cosmologists today http://econ.st/e9mfDl examining data so that their profession is no longer sci-fi but real, the latest information backing arguments that the universe is forever expanding, that the Big Bang may not have been the first, and if so, then isn’t it possible that another Big Bang could occur, Creationists be damned, where’s the wonder in that?
There are infinite lessons to be drawn from religious stories, I am reminded by Mike Tully’s flower-nectar metaphor http://bit.ly/i3L7fs, what is the science of infinity, http://amzn.to/dBEUwq, a must-read by David Foster Wallace, (don’t let a single link go untouched here because I’m getting back to my point, I promise, it’s just that I’m excited).
I’ve circled April 16 one of those haloed days – perhaps one day in the future the human brain will be able to remember our actual day of birth – that for me are hallowed, such as: M’s birthday, May 14, K’s birthday, Jan. 23; My own birthday, Oct. 5; the Pittsburgh Penguins first Stanley Cup, May 25; M and my wedding day, Aug. 20; Pittsburgh Marathon, May 2; Steamtown, Scranton, Pa., Oct. 10, and now April 16, the Boston Marathon, 2012, like I said in More Pain Inc. on Monday (March 28). I’m determined to run it. But not this year .¤.¤.
*
The man in the paper surgical gown in Room 9, Methodist Hospital emergency ward, is asked to get out his ID. He hands the ID to the woman, but she says no, just give me the wallet. Puzzled, the man complies, and in a wink she snatches a bundle of cash, about $400 in all, and leaves the room, not something the patient – in shock as I am in Room 8, sitting waiting for my horse-sized muscle relaxant to kill the pain, just told my diagnosis, although I had to wonder seeing it later that night, a nasty bruise the size of a cantaloupe, that it’s not what you fear, Mr. O’Connor, a rupture, or even a bad tear of the right-leg hamstring but a muscle spasm, the Mother of All Mother Spasms, because not since my blood clot (that was ruled out because the pain was not deep in the leg) almost ten years ago I’d never been in such pain on Monday (March 28), hailing a cab from work in Midtown to my neighborhood hospital, which was K’s idea, reaching her via cellphone, telling me as I lay near-crying, miserable and in the pain of a battleground wound, as comfortable as I can be in those damnable bucket seats in the yellow cab minivan, not even able to adjust my weight forward so that I can shout out the interminably banal infotainment mini TV screen, this tape-loop giving in inordinate attention to a shameless pornographic Guess Jeans spot and an infantile talk show guest, the false gusto of the host, as if the formerly homeless guest’s line that the $700 he earned from a breakthrough movie shoot was enough for him to live in his car for the next twelve years is the funniest thing he has ever heard. From Midtown to Brooklyn, I lose track of how many times the tape repeats, the volume rising, a thirty-minute drive, and now the cabbie is circling the hospital looking for the Emergency entrance, while I’m a lunatic pressing the TV screen, the pain and sadness settling in, that I’ve really f#%#* myself this time, the pain is torture enough, but that insufferable mini TV a final straw, that is until weak and barely a wit about me because of the pain, shock and worry about how I can even remotely manage to swing myself out of the car and into a waiting wheelchair, I hand the cabbie two twenties for a $30 fare and he turns to go, but I manage to say, Five back, please. He’s annoyed, but I stuff the fiver in my wallet and soon am being wheeled into the hospital.
There are no security cameras in the clinic rooms, only in the corridors, due to patient confidentiality rules, which makes the attending doctor think the theft was an inside job. The woman, my emergency doctor says, was wearing a hospital ID bracelet but the name she gave at registration could very well be an alias. Some regular patients who come to emergency for treatment use more than one alias, the doctors says. One staffer is feeling horrible about not saying something to the woman patient in the bracelet, uncharacteristically holding a fistful of dollars and hurrying toward an exit. Yeah, the doctor says, the police are going to the address that the patient-thief gave them.
“Does this happen all the time?” I ask.
The doctor raises an eyebrow. She is thin and pretty, wearing a purple knit hat that looks like it could house a guinea pig.
“No,” she says. “This is my first time.”
*
I saw orthopedic specialist Dr. M, an endurance runner and triathlete this morning (March 31.) I’m in the waiting room for an hour, the clinic room for half an hour, and in the good doctor’s company for 15 minutes, tops. Dr. M is lean and strong-looking, mid-career Richard Chamberlain. He takes one look at the deep-purple and blue bruises on my right leg and says I won’t be running in Boston this year. That’s not a spasm, it’s a muscle tear. So many feelings wash over me, but, surprisingly, relief’s the line leader. We’ll put you on PT regime, he says. Your hamstrings are weak, you need to strengthen them.
“But I’ve been running for 35 years without a problem.”
He smiles, and says I’d be a good candidate for his strengthening program this spring, but right now the muscle needs to rest, to heal. You’ll be doing gentle physical therapy and strengthening, and we’ll check you out in a month.
I change out of the clinic’s gym shorts into my work clothes, am directed to the phalanx of payment people, gather up my referral and business card for Finish Line Physical Therapy, “Taking You There One Stride at a Time,” pay for the medical service and set up for my next appointment with Dr. M, April 28. That’s twelve days short of a year, or 353 days, to Boston 2012.
Next: Running for Your Life: New goals
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