It Hurts When I Do That

"Can you get the pre-op tests done in time for surgery this Friday?"
That was the sound of the other shoe dropping.

The doctor showed my wife and me the images on the screen (yes, she was in there with me as she is far more able than I in virtually all areas where there is brain activity involved). "This should be here, but it's there. This shouldn't be there, but here." Too many things out of place. Too many words leading to one inevitable conclusion. I'm screwed.

Many of my friends have been in recent contact informing me as to the wonderful doctor who helped them, or their friend, or a third cousin a few times removed, become good as new. I could easily play pin the tale on the surgeon in making my choice of who gets the honor of reattaching A to B and C to D. Or was it A to D and B to C?

The good thing is the injury is to the rotator cuff on my non-throwing shoulder. So if the Yankees should have a mid season meltdown of their pitching staff (as is an inevitability) I should still be fully capable of throwing a 50 mile an hour fastball at least 45 feet or so.

I am scheduled to meet with another surgeon this Friday just so I can get the bad news in stereo. As of now, unless I learn of a form of meditation that can cure what ails me, I am set to go under the knife a week from Friday.

I have been very fortunate through the years. My unintended tumbles leading to numerous trips to the DL, but none landing me on the operating table. That stroke of good luck has quite apparently come to an inglorious end. Let's hope this new streak is one and done.

My closest friend for over half a century, who served as my primary care physician for many years, used to ask "Does it hurt when you do that? Then don't do that."

It hurts when I do that.