At my engagement party many
years ago (yes, I was once married), my grandmother was talking to my friend
Vivien. When Vivien asked how she was
doing, my grandmother replied in her heavy Yiddish-Russian accent, “Didn’t
Linda tell you? I hurt my hip 18 months
ago.”
I hope I am not turning into
my grandmother.
But almost four weeks ago,
out of the blue, I felt a sharp pain in my right hip. While the initial pain has substantially
subsided, it is still there. My
internist (whom I love, and whom I’ve been seeing since 2003) suggested an
x-ray. When the results came in, she
called and said, “You have calcific tendinitis; nothing serious, but you should
see an orthopedist.” So today I do.
I get to my 9:15 appointment
and ask, “Is the doctor running on time?”
“Yes,” is the receptionist’s response.
We must have different
definitions of on time. I see the
doctor at 10:45.
He walks in, and is
impeccably dressed. Beautifully tailored
navy suit. Nice shirt and tie. No white lab coat for this guy. He looks more like an investment banker than
a doctor. But he wears an impressive title: Chief of
Reconstruction Arthroplasty and the Director of Arthroplasty Fellowship Program
at Lenox Hill Hospital.
The doctor reviews my films,
and tells me, according to the x-ray, that my left hip is the one with the
calcific blah blah blah. My left hip feels perfectly fine; it's my right hip that hurts.
But after a series of guided manual
movements of both legs, the doctor concludes I have tendinitis in the left hip too and recommends
physical therapy.
I walk home in the rain.
Knowing it’s nothing serious immediately eliminates most of the pain.
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