Yesterday I went to the doctor’s office for the first time in nearly four years.
I’ve never liked having to report to hospitals or a doctor’s office – something about the white walls, linoleum floors and strangers with clipboards always puts me on edge. I can’t stand medical television shows and whenever a surgery scene or an image of a fractured bone or some other gruesome bodily injury appears in a movie, I close my eyes and cling to my wife like a high school sweetheart, waiting until she gives me the all clear to watch again.
As an active 25-year-old who tries to stay at least somewhat in shape, I am used to getting a fair share of bumps, bruises, scrapes and cuts. Generally, a few Ibuprofen pills for breakfast can cure the worst injuries I incur while sailing, hauling lobster traps, woodworking, fixing my car or helping my friend with his motorcycle, but for about a week and a half now my right leg hasn’t been willing to shake what feels like the worst charley-horse known to mankind.
Now, forced to walk at a slow stagger by the mysterious affliction, I am beginning to notice details in my surroundings I have unknowingly sauntered past for months. Limping down the dock to my car in the early morning I see which vessels are registered and those that aren’t, whose hull needs a wax job and those boats most likely to break free of their dock lines in a stiff blow. As I awkwardly make my way through the parking lot at work I look to see who backs their vehicle in and who pulls in nose first, once inside the office I count how many steps there are between my desk and the water cooler. I’m paying more attention to tide charts too, as leaving for work or arriving home during a low tide means I have to traverse a 45-degree ramp with just one good leg.
Wanting to say goodbye to the pain in my leg as much as the cumbersome thoughts in my head, I made a doctor’s appointment a few days ago. I was nervous about going in, and decided to skip the appointment when the pain subsided about a half hour before I was supposed to show up. When I called to make yet another appointment a few days later the receptionist already knew who I was, why I was calling and that I didn’t like doctors’ offices.
“You’ll be fine,” she said.
I staggered out of the office after half an hour spent filling out forms, answering questions and having my leg jerked around. Frustrated that the doctor – who would probably describe me as “abrasive” – couldn’t tell me there was a miracle pill I could take to get me ship shape for a big regatta next week, I tossed her physical therapy referral form in the trash. Determined to beat the pain on my own rather than pay for expensive and time-consuming physical therapy visits, I told my wife to grab two cold packs on her way home from work and popped a few more Ibuprofen.
Three hours later my leg was no better than it had been for the past nine days and my wife convinced me to schedule an appointment with a physical therapist.
Sometimes healing is a “one step backward and two steps forward” process. Hopefully by this time next week I’ll be able to put one foot in front of the other without wincing.
                                                                 – Nate Jones