At the Orthopedic Office

It’s 9:30 AM. I’m at the local Orthopedic Center offices. 

I walk up to the counter to announce myself. The twenty-something receptionist looks up. “We have some paperwork for you to complete,” she says.

I reach for the clipboard, then turn around to find a seat. There are fifty plus chairs in the half a tennis court size waiting room. Approximately 30 patients waiting. But there are 18 doctors. So ... ratio is good.

I complete the forms, claiming zero pre-existing conditions. I admit to taking two medications, a statin (5 mg dose) and a baby aspirin. I don't mention sleep-aids and underestimate daily wine  (lie) claiming  that I drink just one glass of wine daily.

I give the forms back to the receptionist, return to my seat. I look around, noting a high percentage of senior souls sharing space with me this morning. The phrase “walking wounded” comes to mind.

I pick up a copy of the New Yorker.  I get through a page and a half of an article about fast food when I hear my name called.

“Edward?” 

I stand up.

“My name is Rachel,” says a young woman, “I’ll be leading you to your room.”

We go to Room 3. “Please remove your clothes and put on the hospital gown, open in the back,” says Rachel. She shuts the door and leaves.

Remove my clothes? It’s a shoulder injury. Rotator Cuff, I call it. I take off my shirt only. Slip into the hospital gown. I cannot come close to tying the back. Who designed these "gowns?" I sit in a chair and wait. I stare at the walls.

Solitary confinement comes to mind. Why didn’t I bring the magazine? I scan the room. No reading material. I stare some more at the wall. Nothing there. Minutes go by, five, ten ...  

Finally there’s a knock and the door opens. An athletic looking, fifty-ish man wearing a clean starched white coat with his name embroidered over the breast pocket enters.

“Did you bring a MRI CD?” he says.

“No,” I say

He gives me a frown. Not happy. 

Oh well. 

We exchange greetings.  "I have a report," I say, holding out the paper.

He reaches for it, looks at the MRI report. At least I remembered that. Actually I remembered the CD as well, but, yesterday, after a day long full house search, and total car search, I concluded that I’d taken it to the physical therapist and that they forgot to return it. I trucked over there. They denied they had it, so I more or less gave up.

After reading the report the Dr. says, “I’ll explain your situation. Let me go get a model.” 

He dashes out. 

He returns with the model, a plastic replica of the human shoulder. He holds it in front of me, pointing out the various tendons and bones with a pencil. He details my injury.

Next he goes over the surgery scenario: it's an outpatient procedure, 4 weeks in sling with no movement, no driving, 4 more weeks no activity. A high success rate, he says, then adds a but: moderate to severe pain.

“I’ll probably elect NOT,” I say.

 He seems OK with this, then asks, “Is there anything you currently have to do that you cannot do?”   

"Not really." 

“I elected NOT also,” he says. “Mine was an old college football injury. ”

“I separated my shoulder playing college football,” I offer.

“Not related,” he says, cutting off my about-to-begin, mildly embellished, college football story. 

He moves right along.

He demos three rehab exercises. Then says, “I do them every day. It takes 11 minutes.  I live with it. No poles when snow skiing. No water skiing at all. No pitching to the kids. I don’t throw any kind of ball. I once had an arm like a Major League  player. I could throw it a mile.”

“I was a pitcher in college,” I say. 

He doesn’t bite. Apparently he's not interested. Instead, he offers, “Do the exercises every day. If you want surgery I’ll be happy to do it.” His hand is on the door knob.

“Thank you so much for all of your advice,” I say feeling the need to flatter him, but he offers no reaction. 

“And thanks for letting me tell my football story,” I say.

“What’s that?” he says, halfway out the door.

“You told yours, so I got a segue to mine.”

“Yes,” he says. There is the tiniest of chuckles, which I see as an opportunity to probe further.

“Where did you go to college?”

I expect Notre Dame, because he looks very athletic. He says, "Johns Hopkins."

Huh? 

Did Johns Hopkins even have a football team? (Answer: Yes I looked it up later at home). Their level, in 1963, was a step below us (Lehigh), but every bit, in our league, just not near Notre Dame, or Big Ten. Some of Johns Hopkins’ opponents were also our (lesser) opponents. Regardless, he actually looks like a real footballer, a six footer, and appearing muscular under the white coat, unlike me, currently, at 76, a body shrunk to 5’ 6” from a once 5’ 8 ¾’’ (honest) in stocking feet at 18.    

“I went to Lehigh,” I say.

He nods. “Anything else I might do, get in touch,” he says. He closes the door.

I slip off the hospital gown, thinking to myself, We definitely would have trounced Johns Hopkins.