Where You Been Boy? Conclusion

The Old Man wraps this up. After the round of visits by Dr. Stickfiend and the encounters with the imagined demented hunchback, I began an eight week program of physical therapy. A pleasant lady began the process with a series of stretching exercises. Pretty bland. After a few visits, I noticed that things were ramping up a bit. First there were one pound weights on each ankle while I did leg lifts. No problem....until she had me do these things while sitting on a huge beach ball. Ball rolling around, me trying to keep my balance, doing leg lifts until the spots began to form before my eyes, would have made Jillian of "Biggest Loser" proud.

The ankle weights gradually increased to five pounds per ankle. Then I became coupled to this rubber band apparatus mounted on the wall. "Pull down slowly with your arms, hold for a count of 5, and then release". "Oh, and do two sets of ten". Along about number 15 of these, I began to visualize the mileage I would cover if one of the bands happened to break and sent me out the 3rd floor window. By my calculation, I could probably make Omaha without stopping to refuel.

Through each twice weekly session, half of my mind was keeping count of the exercise sets while the other half spent quality time in the land of dread. I knew my personal Armageddon was approaching......the evil and sadistic exercise known as "the plank". "Achieve push-up position, keep back straight, and hold in the "up" position for 10 seconds. Do this 3 times."
"Yessim".
By the end of the third time, my arms were trembling like Ozzie Osbourne's vocal chords.

So, how does all this end? Physical therapy was good for me, but the back still hurts. More shots in a different area will be tried. Meanwhile, "The Old Man" is appropriately well named.

A Word of Thanks

The Old Man expresses his greatest admiration and deepest thanks to those who 67 years ago waded ashore into the earthbound hell of Omaha Beach. Many of you took your last steps in this world that June day, but now run unfettered and unthreatened in a better place.

I'll thank you in person one of these days.

Where You Been, Boy? Chapter 2

The Old Man continues. Dr. Neurologist allowed as how he thought one of his compatriots "upstairs" would be the one to take me to the next level. Dr. Neuro is my kind of people; great sense of humor and an outgoing personality. For example, he asked me, "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain level?". I replied, " That's kind of subjective.....give me an example of a 'ten'. " His reply, "On your knees, banging on the door of the emergency room, begging for help, would qualify as a 'ten'. " "Ok, on that scale, I'm about a 'four'."

Quite refreshing since most doctors in my experience have had names like Humpy Thoroughgood IV, and talked while stroking a beard.

Soooooo, upstairs to the "pain management specialist" I hobbled. Nice guy, all business, and at least, not named Humpy. He took down his model of the human spine and began to outline the course of treatment.

"I believe what is called for here is the injection of a steroid substance (with a name longer than Kermit's tongue). I'll be using X-ray guidance to show me exactly where to place the needles in the facet joints in your lumbar area." Needles? In my spine? Can we throw in a waterboarding session just to break up the monotony? Oh, great! I had survived the demented hunchback only to be confronted with Dr. Stickfiend.

The big day arrived. "Good morning, Mr. Jackson. You can come on back now". Harmless sounding and friendly on the surface, it carried all the terror of "Please report to the Principal's office". I looked bravely at Miss Martha, gave her that whistling-past-the-graveyard smile, and headed off to the land of adventure.

"Unbutton and unzip, then lie face down on the table", said Miss Harmless & Friendly. With great fanfare, Dr. S entered and said sprightly, "All set?". "Yessir", I croaked. After some whirring and bumping about, he said, "Now, you'll feel a little stick and some burning, then a little pressure". Caution flag number two waved in my mind. When doctors admit to such as "little stick" or "some burning", best you bite down hard on the bullet. The "little pressure" sort of resembled Babar the Elephant standing on my back.

Eight injections later, they had me sit in a nice chair and plied me with fruit juice. They said they needed to observe me for a while. For what? Was I possibly going to morph into the Incredible Hulk? Or maybe they wanted to make sure I wasn't going to go over to the emergency room and bang on the door.

Stay close, the final chapter will give you a look into the crystal ball.