And You Dare To Call Us Flightless Birds

Or, My New Career as a Stuntperson

You may have noticed that your trusty penguin has been absent for a couple days. I have been recuperating from several adventures as, apparently, I was attempting to fly.

The first attempt, on Monday morning, was off the end of the treadmill. Ours has this odd design by which you set the time you want to walk, then when it reaches zero, the belt stops. Unfortunately, as my mind apparently was elsewhere (it is still to be determined if this was due to the several medications circulating around my system, or simple dope-headed inattention), the ‘mill stopped before I was ready to. I did not become airborne at this first trial, but in the effort to stop myself from doing so (must have chickened out at the last minute), I pulled a few muscles and that did me no good whatsoever.

So, wondering if I’d done any damage to any vital structures, I called my trusty physical therapist. Linda, the trusty physical therapist’s trusty receptionist, said if I wanted I could come in and hang around and see if the trusty physical therapist could squeeze me in. But I wasn’t about to wait around only to find out he couldn’t squeeze me in, which has happened before. I told her this and she said to call in the morning.

As it happened I had an appointment with my acupuncturist that afternoon. He is also a chiropractor. He is also a very sympathetic listener. Sympathetic all around, actually. If you’ve got a crying kid with a splinter (not that I’ve ever had this, but I’ve been one--oh, about a week ago. Just kidding.), he’s the guy you want on the other end of the tweezers. So he heard my tale of woe, and offered, at no additional charge, an adjustment at the end of my needle session to correct any damage my first attempt to become airborne might have wreaked on my poor beleaguered bod. A couple of blocks, a few magic words, and – poof - my pelvis was gently realigned. Then, walking through his lobby toward the door, with my usual armful of pillows (I bring my own – he only has those round bolstery things that bother my neck and don’t raise my knees high enough when I’m on my back.), I went for my second, and more successful attempt. Keep in mind that I was heading toward the door, to the left of which is one of those unforgiving waiting room chairs, and to the right of which, was one of those even more unforgiving waiting room tables designed to hold magazines and pamphlets describing how wonderful acupuncture is, like you aren’t already sold because you’re coming there already. I guess they are designed for your friends and family, so you can show them how wonderful acupuncture is by the pictures of all the people smiling and riding bicycles and doing yoga.

But I digress.

Something caught somewhere. Or, it was another result of a bunch of those medications doing God-knows-what to the part of my brain that handles coordination. Either way, I went for a short and unfortunately bumpy flight that ended when my left knee hit the carpet, my right arm hit the wall and my head thunked into the place where the wall, door and floor met. Also my right foot got tangled up in something, but I don’t remember what. I remember yelping something, too, but I don’t remember what that was either. Probably close to any of the things that Wilbur Wright might have yelped in the many unsuccessful attempts that ended when his plane kissed the earth.

This caused the acupuncturist to come rushing out, asking if I was all right.

I just lay there, stunned for a moment. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I tried to answer him but couldn’t think of what to say. Was I all right? I couldn’t tell. The situation was just too ridiculous. I guess of all the places to attempt flight, you couldn’t do much better than in a chiropractor’s office, clutching a stack of pillows to your chest. What I do remember thinking was that however I had landed, I was probably not in the best position for my spine. Slowly (and thinking very deliberately, because I was too shaken up to remember the procedure for getting into a neutral position) I rolled onto my back. My foot hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. He helped me back up to standing, and got me into a chair. He said he’d just go stick one more patient with some needles, and then he’d come check me over.

Slowly I began to breathe normally again. He came back, got me into an exam room, realigned my pelvis, then checked me for major trauma like broken bones or concussion or open wounds. Nothing there. And he sent me on my way.

Once safely home, I packed myself in ice (and what penguin doesn’t mind a little ice now and again?), took a couple of Motrin, and just chilled.

Tuesday morning, I was sore. Not so-sore-I-couldn’t-get-out-of-bed sore, but angry enough to warrant a call to one, the PT, and two, my doctor.

The trusty PT’s trusty receptionist said there’d been a cancellation at 11. I gritted my bill and drove the 25 minutes there. Walked as much as my foot could tolerate on his treadmill (holding onto the handrails…I was not ready for a third attempt at flight so soon). Which was about six minutes. Then I collapsed into a chair, and waited for him to get to me. He came over with a cockeyed grin, shaking his head, and asked what I’d done now. (His nickname for me is “Calamity Jane.” It so warms my heart that my misadventures amuse him.) I related the whole tale of woe, and each attempt to become airborne. Including the state of my neck, which was starting to feel stiff. And that I was going to the doctor later that afternoon. Then he said, “Can’t help you, buddy. Too soon after the trauma. Go home, ice up and take ibuprofen. Call me Thursday if you’re still sore. And don’t let the doctor tell you to put heat on that neck. I don’t know why they say that. Use ice for the first couple days.”

Thanks, “buddy.” You could have told me that over the phone and saved me 50 minutes of driving. He did, however, brave the sight of my gone-native calves (you could braid these things, for Christ’s sake) to check my impressively-bruised knee for tendon damage, the foot for fractures.

Finding none, he sent me home to my ice packs. Which I amused myself with, for a while, until it was time to go to the doctor. (Actually, the doctor’s assistant, because of late my doctor has become too busy to see people on short notice. Unless, I’d imagine, if you were bleeding from a sucking chest wound.) Ann, the PA, is nice, and thorough, but if you want an MRI or something expensive, she’ll defer the doctor and that’s a whole separate appointment. So she checked my impressively-bruised knee for tendon damage, the foot for fractures, the spine and neck for any obvious signs of distress.

Finding none, she sent me home to my ice packs. And told me to take ibuprofen. And put heat on my neck. And take some Skelaxin (which I still had from the last time I saw her, which allows me to fly without having my feet leave the ground). And gave me a slip that allowed me to get my foot x-rayed if it continued to be a problem. And said that if the back continued to hurt I’d have to make another appointment with the Doctor and see what he thinks about putting in for an MRI.

Sigh.

So here I am. A little banged up, a lot frosty, and probably will have to go to the PT tomorrow to get a few spinal parts re-aligned, but basically OK. So much for my attempts at flight. I think I’ll remain grounded for a while.

If it’s all the same to you.