Nobody makes me bleed my own blood…NOBODY!

white goodman

So today I show up for my first day of physical therapy. Yes, it gets better.
I can’t just up and write a blog like some folks. My most killer blogs (ones that get a whole three plus reads) seem to come from realizations, so here is one I had today.

I show up and at first I’m really nervous cause I know it’s going to hurt. I’ve been warned. This guy does Military peeps, and my shoulder is frozen so they have to draw and quarter me and blah blah blah. He warned me grown men have cried and then since I sniffed at that, now I am a conquest. Well, whatever, this means war then Mr. Mustache.

Anyway, I show up and this ole dude is like warming himself up. I know it cause I can hear the neighboring room echo with the cries of dying patients. Heh.

So I have to pee a lot when I’m nervous…sue me. My third time to the bathroom (remember I’m pumped right) and I push on the unlocked door—and—only someone pushes back. But my instinct is to like buck the man still, ya know? So I’m like dude…you are so going down! For a moment I push back totally not even thinking!

Then my sense of reason returns and I back away slowly from the door like, “Oh, hell, what have I done?”

Sure enough the pisser comes out in five and it’s a lady and she is pissed (haha pisser pissed). She scours the room for the “pervert”. I’m not the embarrassed type so I look right back at her and say, “Hey, I’m so sorry.”

Nothing. No answer. Nada.

Whatever then, FINE THEN! I shrug it off.

Only, for the rest of the visit we are like bunk mates. Her glaring at me, and me being mentally like, “Calm down chick, I didn’t see your hoo-ha or nothing, sheesh.”

Ok, fast forward.

I’m laid out after being toasted on both sides and he starts pushing and prodding and pulling and yanking and askin me with a twinkle in his devilish eye, “You still with me?”

I nod, tight lipped, a few cusses under my breath. And then while he is stretching my arm over my head that hasn’t seen the light of that day since August of last year (I’ll get to that in a second) my vision flickers, but still no tears, ha, suck on that pirate phys-therapist-fakey-doctor!

And right when I am about ready to knock the brakes off this guy and say sayonara, it dawns on me. This is my conflict. I mean, for now, this is my struggle. I’ve had my dreams stolen, crushed, and spit on, and now I am being tortured as well. What greater fodder for my books is there than that?

Ok, dramatic, maybe, but let me scale back a bit.

In august of last year I was about a month away from the qualifiers and one competition away from the championships. To keep my lovely anonymity I’ll just say it was Dodgeball,,,,

So I get into an accident playing…Dodgeball. Like ambulance to another city away for the trauma-center accident. Only, they decide not to do surgery.

Picture gloved hands that set my bones giving me a thumbs up with smiles underneath their masks. “We say it looks alright, Miss Keys!”

And so the healing process begins.

I’m thinking yeah, so, six to eight weeks, no big deal. This ain’t my first ball left un-dodged, I know the drill. I’ll be as good as new in eight–ok fine make that ten weeks for the age factor this time round…

But then I’m not.

I show up and get my casty thingy off and the nurse leaves and then the doctor comes in with my charts.

“Mrs. Keys, we gotta talk,” he says and I get the sense that he means business.

Doctor Cholo (anonymity remember?) pushes his dirty white coat back to place his hands on his hips. He comes over to stand before me but then shakes his head and turns away.

I just know something isn’t right. I mean besides the dirty coat and soap opera actions.

He sighs and says, “I’ve looked at your x-rays,,, and…and…”


“You mind?” He holds up a cigarette and lighter and I shrug.

In fact, I snag one of those puppies. If this ship is going down, she’s gonna have one last stogie!

We both puff a moment before he approaches me again placing the cig in the corner of his mouth to free up his hands, his one eye squinted up to avoid the smoke.

“Have a seat,” he says quietly and I do. My own cigarette is left forgotten now in the ash tray. Don’t ask.

The doctor’s hands are warm as they trail up my arms. He squeezes one shoulder, and then the other, and then the one again, comparing.

“These bones,” he mutters. “these strangely beautiful bones.”

No wonder he’s a trauma surgeon. He is fascinated by them.

“What is it?” I whisper.

Now I know what you are thinking. Logan, if you keep making it fictional how are we to tell what is the truth? Psshh, I plan on making a very good living on my non-truth so let me practice, sheesh.

Anyway. “What is it,” I whisper huskily and softly and quietly.

“They’re all wrong, Mrs. Keys. No good. The bones, they’ve moved during the time you’ve been laid up, and I think we need to do the surgery.”

“Okay…how long before I can throw a ball again?”

“A year, or more…I don’t know for sure.”

And then he catches me as I fall. To the ground I go, the earth spinning, no I mean more than usual around me.

A roar of sound is in my ears before I realize that the noise is my own yell of negation. “Nahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo”

But yes, Ladies and gentlemen. Yes. Seven hours of surgery and over twelve months of not doing anything athletic in the least with my upper body. (let’s get that part clear. Wat? I meant I can still be a professional gym bike rider where I lean back and read).

I was devastated. I’ve been competing for over twenty years. I was actively active for about five out of seven days a week! I trained…hard. And now what? Nothing?

So then as most of us on Obamacare, just kidding, but we are on government insurance, and now you too get to be on the funny plan! Schmucks. Read on for more information about that little doozy.

I got passed to another doctor for my surgery. And then another. And then another. Literally. For like six months. There is like a call center who refers you and they just go by a vague list of places that are overfilled, or unable to do my type of surgery, or can’t provide my care. Welcome to the DMV of health coverage, impersonal and presto! I got left on the back burner so long that: “Um, we can’t do surgery now that you’ve sat this long without any mobility blah blah blah. You’ll never be able to move your arm again.” Tada!

So off to physical therapy I go since the scar tissue now is enough to hold a baby elephant in my socket…

Oh right, so how does this work together with writing? Well since I’ve been living in this bomb shelter from august till now, unable to do much of anything other than blog like a loser (yes, it is proof you don’t get laid for the most part… sorry peeps). Now, I know that I’ll not only finish my novels, but with so much more time and effort put into them that they will even be legible!

Having my dreams ripped away might force me to be a real writer yet. Inspiration? Absolutely. Blind rage can be concentrated and used people!




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