Nothing Against the Medical Community

by Sherie Pollack

... Or the '80s for that matter, but it took a while before I was looking back and doing any laughing.

It was 1982, I was new to Los Angeles and was happily settling into the new L.A. job, new L.A. apartment and new L.A boyfriend.

La-de-da and look at me—see, I can do this. Why, in no time I bet I'll stop asking for money from the folks.

I'm so cocky I'll even take a "sick" day, go to the beach, then cruise the trendiest shopping part of town with my beau.

Look, I'm walking up the winding little path to the Versateller. I withdraw my carefully budgeted "entertainment" money from my new bank account and turn to meet the beau and WHAMMO! I've turned my ankle (completely around) and fall to the ground.

The pain surges up my foot and into my mouth. I bite down hard on the swear words that rush up to announce to the world that all is not well in 'I-can-have-it-all College Grad Land.'

The passers-by quickly assume their positions—avoid the crumpled hooky-playing girl, or stand and stare at her. My trusty beau looks pleadingly into my not-gonna-cry brimming eyes.

"What can I do?"—his eyes yell at me. My mouth responds, " Ice ... I need friggin' ICE!"

And he's off! This one was a triathlete (another story, another time), and he hit the street at a 4.0 minute mile, focusing on the nearest shop that would provide ice. YES! I see him sprint into Euphoric Yogurt ... Good thinkin' Ace! If anyone would have ice ... I sit on the sidewalk cradling my swelling extremity while trying to make myself invisible as I slowly work my stupid '80s laced hi-top shoe off in front of the bank. People scurry past as I concentrate on my breathing and contemplate the fact that as you get older your threshold for pain decreases, and I refuse to cry ... Where the hell is the boyfriend already?

A man with a turban on his head and a suitcase not on his head drifts toward me with a severe case of eye contact. I think the worst; he's gonna want something or take something ... the pain becomes agony and he is not what I need.

Turban man kneels down despite my showing him my back (a statement of disinterest that I learned from my cat). I go to plan B; the sure-fire 'non-victim glare' directly into his eyes, but he's a pro and leans in close. As I wind up for the "Help, Fire!" alarm ... he gently informs me that he only wants to assess the injury. My eyes yell, "What are you, a doctor?" But before I can object or create another plan, he scans the foot and makes his diagnosis: " It is not broken ... but it is bad. This is worse than broken."

As I watch his abrupt departure I ponder the universal "It's-better-to-break-a-bone-than-sprain-a-muscle" notion. We've all heard that ... but I've never met anyone (aside from a kid who wants a cast), who really craves the experience.

Where the hell is the Triathlete boy?

A sun-weathered bag lady shuffles up to me on her way to the garbage.

She looks at my bloodied sock (my foot swelled to the point of actually tearing the skin—very dramatic!). She too was immune to plans A and B and proceeded to kneel down to me while reaching into her many bags and handed me a crumpled bag of my very own.

I decided not to complain about anything ever again.

The Boyfriend sprints through the crowd holding a dripping cup of Raspberry Chocolate frozen yogurt.

Ah, good ... a valid reason to lose my temper—imagine him indulging in sugar- and carb-loading (not illegal in the '80s), while I sit on the pavement praying no one I know will happen by. But his mouth tells me that ice is a thing of the past. ... Yogurt is a good alternative ... it's cold, has no sharp edges and is non-fat.

Me and my yogurt-foot get carried into the hospital's emergency room ... (men, take note ... you will score many points if you can scoop girlfriend into your arms and jog gracefully past a crowd).

So, after sitting for an hour in the emergency waiting area, I was given an inkless pen to fill out 12 insurance forms.

I read an entire Newsweek, two People's and was settling into the Melanoma pamphlet when I was whisked into the x-ray room.

The joking nice-guy technician grabbed my leg so hard while he positioned my foot on the X-ray plate that the subsequent man-hand-sized bruise surpassed the overnight grace period and developed right there in front of our eyes.

He said I was obviously too sensitive. He had said the wrong thing to the wrong girl on the wrong day. He made it through the x-rays but will never be the same.

The harried but very clean lady resident doctor knew not to handle the foot for too long. She congratulated me for tearing all seventeen ligaments in my lower extremity. Boy, she's glad she's not me 'cause the "discomfort level" is known to be extreme in such cases. I should have broken it, and "stay off it for two weeks." Use these $80 crutches and take these $50 painkillers that are addictive and will make you throw up. Oh, and you can pay the $300 emergency fee in increments (Big-o bucks for Miss recent college grad).

I get carried up the stairs in front of my roommate who says she wishes she had film in her camera 'cause I looked thin and the Triathlete took off his shirt 'cause all the girlfriend-carrying was a workout. (Sigh), she should have had film in the camera.

I stay in bed and gain yet more respect for anyone disabled—I dutifully hop around and do not move the foot for two solid weeks. Breathing hurts my foot. After a week I notice the calf muscle is soft. After two ... the leg looks a bit withered. I go to a doctor who charges more than the emergency doctors. Expensive Doctor recoils at the sight of my leg (I hate when they recoil). "You should have tried to move it a little every day." Atrophy has set in. Go to this Physical Therapist and do these painful exercises and pay all this money over the course of 3 months.

I go, I do, and I finally heal.

It's true about sprains; my foot does say "Damn it" when it's going to rain. And I wish I would have broken it so it would have healed stronger and could have resumed life as a quiet foot.

And I haven't played hooky since.

But I don't blame hooky ... I blame the emergency room for not knowing that I would listen when they said don't move the foot for two weeks.

The Triathlete? The workouts drove him to drink ... haven't seen him for ten years.

Copyright © Sherie Pollack 2004