Speaking of busted up old guys, I went to my family doctor a few months ago. I had a right shoulder that was just killing me. I was putting up with that bum shoulder until one day, when I was crawling under the car to change oil, I discovered that the shoulder hurt so badly that I couldn’t pull the wrench to tighten up the drain plug on the crankcase. You can’t change your own oil, that’s bad. You wouldn’t have any excuse to go to AutoZone.
Well, the doctor looked at it and asked me how I had injured the shoulder. I didn’t think that I had done that. Over time the shoulder just seemed to be getting a little worse, until it got to the point that it hurt so much I couldn’t sleep very well. Maybe a little Arthur Ritus, I thought, but no injury. He told me, “You’ve got a ‘frozen shoulder.’” Something called “adhesive capsulitus.” Whew, that sounded pretty serious to me. Jeeze!
He sent me for x-rays, and then to a physical therapy place, where they would loosen up the shoulder. Yeah. If you call bending your arm the way it was never intended to be bent “loosening up the shoulder,” that’s just what they do. Da Missus said she knew a couple of women who noticed that they had real trouble doing their hair because they couldn’t raise their arms high enough. They went to physical therapy and got fixed up. But they said it hurt to beat the band. And I found out that they weren’t lying one bit.
Some of the therapists have MPT behind their names. I asked my therapist what that meant. He said it meant Masters of Physical Therapy. Shoot. I thought it meant Maximum Pain and Torture. The guy who runs the place, Big Ed, came by one day while I was on the table getting worked over. He asked me how I was doing. I said, “This guy’s killing me!” He smiled. “That’s good,” he said, “that’s real good.”
Place is like that. One day this gimpy starica comes limping into the room, and her therapist has her get up on the table. He told her to lie on her back, with her knees bent and with her feet scrunched up next to her butt. Then he told her to arch her back and raise her pelvis up into the air. I was absolutely amazed when the gal did just that. You gotta remember that she was about 450 years old. The girl knew Columbus personally. But she moved like a kid. Then the therapist told her to “do that 200 times.” The old gal just about had a bowel movement right there on the table. “Two hundred times?” she said. “Are you serious?” The therapist gave her that Marlboro-Man-in-the-Saloon-Look: Late afternoon sun glinting in the windows, burnishing the lower half of his jaw. Takes a long drag on his stogie. Slowly blows the smoke down at the floor. Flicks the stogie into the spittoon. Pushes his hat back slightly. Looks her right in the eye and says, “Damn right, ma’am!” Old gal asked for some toilet paper.
After a couple of weeks of that physical therapy, the shoulder started moving better. It was like pitching in the Major Leagues, though. If I had a day of rest, I could start. But on the day they wrenched on my arm, I was pretty useless. Some days it was tough to get the sljivovica to my lips. But I tried. That old Wisconsin experience kept coming through: we know how to drink injured.
Vasilji
Well, the doctor looked at it and asked me how I had injured the shoulder. I didn’t think that I had done that. Over time the shoulder just seemed to be getting a little worse, until it got to the point that it hurt so much I couldn’t sleep very well. Maybe a little Arthur Ritus, I thought, but no injury. He told me, “You’ve got a ‘frozen shoulder.’” Something called “adhesive capsulitus.” Whew, that sounded pretty serious to me. Jeeze!
He sent me for x-rays, and then to a physical therapy place, where they would loosen up the shoulder. Yeah. If you call bending your arm the way it was never intended to be bent “loosening up the shoulder,” that’s just what they do. Da Missus said she knew a couple of women who noticed that they had real trouble doing their hair because they couldn’t raise their arms high enough. They went to physical therapy and got fixed up. But they said it hurt to beat the band. And I found out that they weren’t lying one bit.
Some of the therapists have MPT behind their names. I asked my therapist what that meant. He said it meant Masters of Physical Therapy. Shoot. I thought it meant Maximum Pain and Torture. The guy who runs the place, Big Ed, came by one day while I was on the table getting worked over. He asked me how I was doing. I said, “This guy’s killing me!” He smiled. “That’s good,” he said, “that’s real good.”
Place is like that. One day this gimpy starica comes limping into the room, and her therapist has her get up on the table. He told her to lie on her back, with her knees bent and with her feet scrunched up next to her butt. Then he told her to arch her back and raise her pelvis up into the air. I was absolutely amazed when the gal did just that. You gotta remember that she was about 450 years old. The girl knew Columbus personally. But she moved like a kid. Then the therapist told her to “do that 200 times.” The old gal just about had a bowel movement right there on the table. “Two hundred times?” she said. “Are you serious?” The therapist gave her that Marlboro-Man-in-the-Saloon-Look: Late afternoon sun glinting in the windows, burnishing the lower half of his jaw. Takes a long drag on his stogie. Slowly blows the smoke down at the floor. Flicks the stogie into the spittoon. Pushes his hat back slightly. Looks her right in the eye and says, “Damn right, ma’am!” Old gal asked for some toilet paper.
After a couple of weeks of that physical therapy, the shoulder started moving better. It was like pitching in the Major Leagues, though. If I had a day of rest, I could start. But on the day they wrenched on my arm, I was pretty useless. Some days it was tough to get the sljivovica to my lips. But I tried. That old Wisconsin experience kept coming through: we know how to drink injured.
Vasilji
No comments:
Post a Comment