The back doctor in Park City had prescribed yoga for what he called my “on the fence, one wrong move and you’re done” back. So, from his office, yoga is where I headed directly.
The doctor must have known my back was in severe spasm; he has eyes. I could barely walk being bent over dang near in half and a good measure to the side.
The doctor must have known from umpteen years of studying medicine that yoga—now thought of as an almost proven cure for so many things that ail—isn’t what one should even think of doing when one’s back is in severe—I mean seriously—severe spasm.
Why the doctor didn’t qualify his prescribing yoga with a “but not ‘til you can walk upright” I’ll never know. What a ninny. Him and me. Both of us. What ninnies.
Not to totally change injury subjects, but the above passage reminds me of a local doc who after throwing eight stitches into a deep, ragged, two-and-one-half inch long shin gash, boot high, let me leave the emergency room without mentioning—let alone stressing—that my shin gash was going to be ultra painful for a long while. Instead he let me leave with a quirky, “you’re fine, should be jumping around in days.”
I assume he was pandering to what I was; A typical 40-year-old fit guy who thought of himself as macho. Can’t fault him for that. Especially ‘cause I totally bought into his pander at the time because my body was still in the shock stage and not fully feeling the pain.
What the doc should have told me on my way out of his office is “on your way home pick up some Kleenex, because tonight, you’re going to ball like a colicky infant.” And that’s what I did, curled up, on the floor. I balled.
Rusty DeWees tours Vermont and Northern New York with his act “The Logger.” His column appears weekly. Reach him at firstname.lastname@example.org.