Pain in the *
Flat on my back, I stare at the ceiling. A couple technicians fuss around me, ensuring my comfort. They drape my upper torso with thin, warm blankets. Foam blocks are placed under my elbows. Ear plugs are wiggled into my ears and then topped with headphones through which classical music — my choice — will soon be piped. (What should I have requested instead? Show tunes?)
I’ve been up since five to get here on time and, despite the bright lights, I feel as though I could nod off any moment. That is, until the all-clear is sounded and the table on which I am lounging starts to slide.
This is not some sort of space-age spa. I’m about to get an MRI.
When my hip first started bugging me last summer, I didn’t think much of it. I’d spent several weeks pounding boxes up and down my former and current second-floor residences during my move. Plus, I got a bike again after a 10-year respite that followed a dump that landed me in the Maine Med trauma unit. I also did some major hiking, notably around Isle Au Haut, which is French for Kick-Your-Ass Island. And for the first time in years, I played golf — really badly, which is not kind to your body. So, when I came up lame, I figured a little PT would set me right and I could resume beating on myself in no time.
After three months of various manipulations and daily exercises with names like Monster Walk and Pelvis on the Half Shell, the pain, in fact, was worse. I went from a bit of tightness in my right hip to sometimes barely being able to lift my leg, a function that comes in handy for, say, going up stairs, not tripping on roots in the woods, or kneeing the random accoster. Then my left hip, my glutes and my back decided they wanted a piece of the action. I was still stomping around, but it felt as though the stringy/stretchy stuff (muscles and tendons and facia, oh my!) had turned into steel cable. Which, in a way, it had. After imaging ruled out arthritis and bursitis, it was determined I have a condition called gluteal tendinopathy, meaning (I will spare you the hours Dr. Google and I spent discussing this) I am not getting blood into the tendons around my hips. I was still able to do everything, but it was like my body was fighting me every step of the way. Because the discomfort was random and sporadic, I decided some alien force was at work. I asked my doctor, without irony, if he believed in voodoo dolls.
Since PT was not getting us anywhere, further investigation was called for. And that is how I arrived at this moment on this table easing its way into a tube at my feet with Moonlight Sonata serenading my passage. A tunnel of love, however, this is not.
There are times I have thought, This is not fair. I’m a hale and hearty Maine girl. Excepting some questionable choices in my reckless 20s and 30s, I take care of myself. While I won’t turn down a martini or steak dinner if someone is offering, my diet could otherwise be described as nouveau Spartan. (Grain-bowl gruel, anyone?) I work out. I hydrate. I get enough sleep, particularly when editing my own work. But above all else, I walk. Every day, twice a day. It’s where I think and where I write. It’s where I get to see my friends of the arboreal, avian — and yes, if pressed — human variety. It’s how I get through major and minor challenges. There have been times walking has felt like all I had.
So, back to not fair. I only ever let that thought momentarily flutter across my brain. Fair? I don’t even have to look beyond my inner circle to see how random trouble and loss is. All it takes is a diagnosis, a fall, a phone call, and in an instant your world is tipped off its axis. Yet, if I need more proof, all I have to do is look out the window or turn on the news or just think about the access to care I have the luxury of receiving. Fair? Oh, girlfriend, take a number.
I actually have fun in the tube. It’s kind of like being inside a video game with all the bings and bongs it makes. In fact, I’m not that anxious to get up off the table when it’s over. For a woozy minute, I look around for the juice box and snack awaiting me, until I remember you only get that at a colonoscopy. That, and really, really good drugs.
Eventually, I get dressed and push myself back out into the frigid February morning. What steps will follow and what will happen next, I do not know. To quote Roethke: I learn by going where I have to go.
*As they say, if you have to explain a joke…
