Anyone who has struggled to find a diagnosis for their mystery ailment knows the search can feel like a journey down the rabbit hole. That is the position I found myself in when, after a clumsy tumble, I had no idea what was wrong with me. As I waded my way to a diagnosis, I kept reminding myself of advice my doctor had given me earlier in the year: Stop acting so old! I was not going to get crotchety, regardless of how uncomfortable I was.
My first stop was an MRI. If you’ve never had one, I admit they try to make you as comfortable as possible. That’s before they strap your body down onto a table and slide it into a narrow, confining tube. When the technician asked what I would like to listen to on Pandora, I tried desperately to come up with music that would show I still had it going on. But I couldn’t think of anyone who has made an album (are they even still called albums?) in the past 20 years. “Eric Clapton,” I croaked. Not acting old, Test One, had failed.
With my MRI results on a CD, it was off to the orthopedist. Waiting in the exam room, I became a person I hated. I didn’t mean to, but when Doogie Howser walked in, or as he is actually called, Dr. Micah Hobbs, I was immediately struck by his age, or rather, lack of. And so I began: Are you over 40? Why are you dressed so casually? Why do you have a beard? Have you just recently been able to grow a beard? When I worked in the financial services industry, people were often struck by my age, and sometimes my gender. Did I really know what I was doing? It drove me crazy, but I always assured them I was completely qualified and not to worry: my age and gender had nothing to do with my skill set.
To his credit, instead of running from the room, Doogie examined both my shoulder and the MRI image and recommended fixing me right as rain arthroscopically. More questions ensued about his training and how many operations he had performed (What? I was doing my due diligence!). Then it was time to schedule the surgery. This was my chance to quiz the nurses about young Dr. Hobbs. But he got the “I would let him do my shoulder,” which is always better than “I would let him do my husband’s shoulder.” (For all you know, she is in the process of a divorce.) Test Two of not acting old, also failed.
Still not satisfied, I called my nephew, a trauma surgeon in Georgia (humble brag). He picked up on the first ring, most likely because he knew I would just keep calling until he answered. After reviewing all the details, he agreed, ‘Have the surgery, Aunt Pat.’ When I hung up, I felt relieved until I realized some people still call him Mikey instead of Michael. Was he even 30 yet?
Nonetheless, I decided to let my old shoulder be fixed by the hands of a young surgeon. All went well and at the next office visit, Dr. Hobbs had on a tie. He was going to his daughter’s classroom and wanted to look nice for her. You gotta love a man with the right priorities and good surgical skills.
Contact Patty at phannum@townandstyle.com.