I visited an orthopedist today for what I diagnosed as a rotator cuff sprain in my left shoulder.
He wouldn’t take my word for it, so I had to get x-rays to prove I was correct.
The x-ray technician looked like a teenager. I asked for a thyroid shield. He reluctantly produced one, but wasn’t happy with the idea. “What if it shields some of the views and then we have to repeat the process?” he asked me with a smirk. I wanted to smack him. I gave in. Probably a bad idea but it was better than having to take three additional pictures if he was right.
Then he said, “Don’t worry, it’s a low dose of radiation.”
“So come over here and stand with me,” I said smirking back as he ran behind the protective wall.
Three x-rays later I was in the examining room being interviewed by the orthopedist. “What did you do to yourself?” he asked as he looked at the pictures.
“I played polo and lost, and when I dismounted my horse bit me in the shoulder.”
The doctor’s eyes got as big as the knee facsimiles on his counter.
“Just kidding. I don’t know what I did. I woke up one day with my shoulder aching and it’s been complaining ever since.”
“Hmm…well I can offer you drugs, physical therapy or a cortisone shot. What will it be?” He sat there staring at me like a bartender while I processed.
None of the choices appealed to me.
“Drugs go all over your system,” he said doing circular motions over his chest and stomach with his hands. “Physical therapy might not work. The cortisone shot is localized and will take down the inflammation, which you certainly have after your run-in with your polo partner.”
I gave in to the shot.
He rubbed novocaine on my shoulder and shot the liquid into the muscle, like a vet with a horse.
“Call me in a few weeks. I’m going on a fox hunt to England.”