Sunday, April 8, 2012

Undisclosed Desires

Here I sit on another eve of bone diagnosis. Even with health issues I can become cynical and jaded. I am veteran of a thousand waiting room wars. I can separate the meat from the grunts in one room sweep. I have laughed at the noobs, that get annoyed in the blood test lab. I have marveled at strong mothers of sick children. I have the hundred medical form stare. I am highly decorated. I am out of puns and metaphors.

I wish there was some inspirational ribbon I could pull from all this dear readers, but alas my streams are nuggetless. This collar bone thing has no nobility since it was (by far) the least dramatic, dumbest crash I ever had. The injury, though tough and somewhat painful, really doesn't even rank top ten in the shit list of health issues I have suffered in the last five years. There is no glory and even less sympathy. I didn't take any of it seriously and was taken down by the silent killer...sloth.

Tomorrow I go to the uninterested orltho guy who will squeeze me in between, famous motocrosser A and up and coming F..S.U. quarterback B. He will have just enough time to be bored with the fact that I've been off the bike since January twenty, 2012. He will say: "see you in x number of days, weeks etc." or he will clear me to ride. This will be the only event worthy of anything resembling drama. He will regale me with a "good thing you are not Patient X, who suffered an injury way worse than yours" story, in hopes of making me feel lucky. This futile action will be met with no eye contact and a dismissive yawn. I will hold out my hand for the form before he gets it out of his metal notebook. He will check his hair in the mirror and open the door to F.S.U. quarter back B. Their awesome conversation, about all they have in common, will fade with my footsteps, as I walk to check out. This is fine with me. I have had the full attention of enough doctors (perplexed by my behavior or maladies) to last me a life time.

Then there will be the elephant in the car with me that I have no one to blame for but myself and boredom. I have not been on the trainer. I have not been eating right. I have an extra gallon of milk in my mid section. I can't whistle the Rocky theme. I have a tap root that goes to China from just under the surface of my couch. The saddest sad of all is, I don't feel like I have missed cycling much, or at all. Is there a cure? It's a head scratcher.

I am sure Walter Cronkite had nights he hated the news. I know how he feels.