The Bionic Copywriter

Went to a doctor the other day, third one in 5 months. He's an orthopedic surgeon. And I was hoping he could help relieve the nagging pain in my upper thigh that has me wearing an ice pack 24/7.

My first doctor thought I had a hip flexor strain. Brought on by my excessive weightlifting in the gym I've installed in my garage. I have more gym equipment in my garage that I have tools, nuts, bolts and other necessities needed to repair household shit. I don't want to repair or paint anything anymore, I'd rather just pay someone to do that stuff. The privilege of being 44 years old.

The second doctor, a sports medicine doc from UCLA, thought I had a groin pull. A little more serious than a hip flexor. He put me on Tramadol, an opioid pain reliever often given to dogs. I think Lucy, my golden retriever has been pilfering pills. They haven't done me much good. Lucy has begun work on her first novel.

The Sports Med. Doc also recommended torturous stretching....er, physical therapy... I've been doing that for two months. To no avail. But with all the grunting and groaning, my neighbors think my wife and I are on our second honeymoon.

My wife suggested I see a third doctor and insist that he look inside with an MRI or an X-ray, so I was off to see Dr. Millstein, a casual guy who came in exam room wearing a track suit and a mask. Much to wife's everlasting delight, Dr. Millstein --mishbucha--did an X-ray. Millstein took one look at the film and said, "were you a runner?"

And indeed for 30 years I ran religiously, 3-4 miles a day. It was the only way I could burn off enough calories to even out my insatiable appetite and my equally unending thirst for beer. I also trained and ran in several marathons as well as a few triathlons. Just another humblebrag.

"That's it. You see this gap between your femur and your hip socket?"

"No," I said.

"Exactly, it's not there anymore. you wore it out. You have bone scraping bone."

"It hurts."

"Damn right it hurts."

He doesn't want to rush me into a hospital anytime soon, thank you Covid and thank you Precedent Shitgibbon for dropping the Pandemic Meat in the Dirt. But if it continues to get worse we're gonna have to get in there and put in a new ball for that socket. I don't like the sound of that anymore than I imagine I'd like the sound of tiny circular saw cutting through my marrow.

Fuck. In my 44 years, I've never spent a night in the hospital and don't want to now. 

Nor have I ever had surgery, except for the time they had to sew up my finger after flaying it open with a dropped dumbbell on my birthday two years ago.

As a precaution, the good doctor is having me get a cortisone shot right into the deep, dark recesses of my hip. I'll probably pass out when I see the needle.

However, if it keeps me off the OR table, I'm all for it.

The most painful part of this story is that my wife was right. 

I'll never hear the end of that. Never.