Doctors and Dentists and Knees, Oh My

In the ongoing saga of Rick Gets Incredibly Old, my right knee is staging an open rebellion against me.  It hates me.  This is not good for weight loss, which by the way isn’t happening.

Start Weight: 231

Current Weight: 231

Goal Weight: 215

Progress: Shit

So anyway after my first three runs my right knee felt terrible, and then of course a man in a mask attacked me by punching a hole in my scrotum.  So I figured, this is as convenient as having someone drill a goddamn hole in my goddamn nutsack as such a thing could be; it’ll force me to rest my knee for awhile.  It HURT.

Didn’t get better.  So I went to the doctor yesterday, who listened to my story, nodding sagely, probably thinking “Fat old bastard.”  Then she felt my knee to see what was going on.  As she poked and prodded, she said “Huh.  I feel something in there.”

Look how gross it is in there.

Now, in the list of Things You Don’t Want To Hear Medical Professionals Say, “Huh” is right up there, as is a declaration one has found “something.”  I will grant you that the doctor could have said worse things:

“Is your life insurance paid up?”

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit…”

“I didn’t know you could catch these in Canada.”

Still it’s not great.  She gave me a sheaf of things.  One was a presciption for an antiinflammatory called “Celebrex” which, you have to be honest, sounds more like an antidepressant than a painkiller.  (“Celebrate life!  Celebrex!  Ask your doctor!”)  Another was an order for an X-ray, another an order for physio.  I’ll let you know when I have time to get the X-ray done.

I have to admit I’ve been told more alarming things by medical professionals.  About six or seven years ago one of my molars apparently developed a cavity and it dug into the root and I was in indescribable agony; tooth pain is the worst.  I went to my dentist at once and begged him to fix it.  He was like, dude, your tooth is all fucked up.  (Well, he was more professional than that; he actually said “Mr. Jones, your tooth is all fucked up.”)  He said I needed a root canal.  So I said “Fix it” or whatever that sounds like when your mouth is wide open, and he said “No, I’m sending you to this other guy, he’ll fix it.”

I was horrified.  Every minute with this tooth was hell.  “Aye on’t yoo ix it?”

“Well,” he said, “I’m not so good with molars.”

“Is it safe?  I mean, I dunno, you tell me.”

Now, perhaps I’m a little choosy, I dunno.  Maybe I’m one of those picky customers, a difficult sort.  You know, a real demanding sort of client, maybe?  I am, perhaps, no saint.  I’m not Gandhi.  But – and I’ll let you disagree here if you want – I think it’s a reasonable expectation that your dentist be GOOD WITH TEETH.  All of the teeth.  How many different kinds of teeth does a person have?  Uhh… actually that’s an honest question, I’m not sure.  But it can’t be that many, because an adult only has (NOTE TO SELF: LOOK UP HOW MANY TEETH A PERSON HAS BEFORE PUBLISHING)

Like, what would you think if you went to a vet, showed him your cat, and she said “The hell is this thing?  Oh, a CAT.  I’ve heard of those.  Not so good with them.”  Or if you hired a painter who left every fourth wall unpainted and you’re like “WTF” and he says “Yeah, I’m not so good with walls that face north.”  Or if you got on a plane and heard this:

“Folks, welcome to Flight 734 to San Francisco.  We’re just now reaching our cruising altitude of 34,000 feet, and I’ll turn off that seat belt sign and you can move about the cabin.   We’ll start up our dinner and beverage service, as it looks like it’s a  smooth flight all the way there, should get you there in just under four hours.   Forty-eight degrees and clear in beautiful San Francisco.  I’d suggest putting your seat belts on when we get there though, ’cause I’m not so good with landings.”

I have a new dentist now.

Wait, I was taking about my doctor.  So anyway she gave me all the knee stuff and kicked me out.  But before she did I mentioned that I wasn’t losing weight.  I hoped she’s say “I have a liposuction machine and fifteen spare minutes, let’s do this” but instead she told me to get My Fitness Pal for my phone, which will, after Word Chums, be yet another app for my phone that makes me feel bad about myself.

I hope to get a picture of my X-ray, so stay tuned.

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