I hate running injuries. To be more precise I hate anything which does not include the words "donuts" or "recliner". For someone who hates injuries you would think that the wise decision would be to avoid running completely. In fact stay away from all forms of sports and any activity which involves heavy breathing.
My least favorite of all injuries is pulling a calf muscle. It is a really annoying injury. As far as injuries go it is a bottom-feeder. It really is. If you get a major trauma or even something which will give you scars you have something to brag about, and a fail-safe excuse to avoid mowing the lawn for a while. But a pulled muscle? As far as injuries go it is right down there with hang nails and paper cuts.
Last time I pulled a calf muscle I eneded up going to the doctor. The way it works is that I limp in and am asked by the receptionist what is my problem. I am pretty certain she meant my medical issue nto the fact that I was disturbing her magazine reading. So I say "Pulled my calf muscle" as she types away into her computer. I could not make out exactly what she wrote but I think I saw "Whinny middle-aged man needs his Mommy."
After waiting for the required hour I am ushered in. The nurse pulls my file in the computer and reads it with a smirk. She turns to me and asks "How are you doing today?" Well gee let's see, I am at a doctor's office, so I would say on a scale of 1 to 10 this day started as a solid 3. After having to sit in your germ-infested waiting room with teh TV blaring so loud that you might as well check me for a concussion it has shrunk to a 2. But it is still early, you can make me wear one of those hospital gowns and sit here for another 30 minutes waiting for the doctor…Without really waiting for my answer she says "Please put this gown on." Oh yeah, better and better.
After that she types some more on the computer. I am conviced the computer is simply a glorified instant message machine between the disgruntled receptionist and the under-paid nurse. The nurse probably types "Whinny – oh yeah! And you should see him in his gown!" I know she typed that for sure because of the loud laughter I heard from the reception area as soon as as pressed enter.
Eventually the doctor comes in. I can tell she is a pro because she has that look that says "I have spent more than you will earn in 20 years, and the best years of my life learning all 10 major bones in the body, so you better be here to amaze me!" I am convinced that my doctor had her fingers crossed when she took the Hyppocratic Oath because when she does a check up she wears a HazMat suit. She asks "What seems to be the problem?"
Well the problem is that I have already spent 2 hours here and no one seems to know or care what the problem is. The second problem is pain. Pain is always a problem, especially chronic pain. No one wakes up and says "I will get me a cup o' pain this morning with my donuts!" Well I am sure some people do, but they tend to be successful talk radio hosts, and not likely to be invited into my house any time soon.
The doctor looks at me that way my cat does before proceeding to give herself a tongue bath. The docotor, though half-feral and with a look of someone who wishes she had joined a circus, does not proceed to give herself a tongue bath. She instead systematically prods the ten major bone structures (see? going to school is worth something!) in the hopes that there must be something which hurts. When I wince I can see the Aha! in her eyes. A very brief spark of interest. "So, Mr. campos. Your leg hurts?" Uh yes. She presses a few more times, by the third time I am certain she is just playing with it the way a toddler will press buttons and giggle every time a light goes one.
The spark of interest disappears quickly as she realizes that the leg is still (a) firmly attached to my body and (b) is not green or brown or oozing with fluids. Oh well. She shrugs "Take it easy and keep off that leg." Brilliant! Medical school is wonderfuL!
She scribbles something into a pad and hands it to me saying it will help me "manage my pain.” I am sure that over the countless aeons of Campos family history, my ancestors developed this fine capacity to huh AVOID PAIN?! They also developed a strange capacity to ENJOY PLEASURE…go figure.
I look at the scrawled piece of paper that looks like one of my youngest kid's doodles. I am not sure it will help anything…perhaps there is a secret formula here for how to recover the lost 3 hours?