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In late spring, the doctor took the soft cast off and my dominant arm was free for the first time in more than two months. It came off and I felt a surge of strength course through the scarred tendons and mangled muscles. A distinct impression of power overcame me. My hand closed around what was nearest, which happened to be the doctor’s throat, and I trembled, possessed by the muscle’s preternatural instinct for violence.
My grip tightened.
With indifference, I considered the doctor’s life. For a thousand years, the master smiths of Japan tested their blades on the prone bodies of petty criminals and peasants. No weapon was considered suitable for a warrior until it went through this bloody tempering. Staring at his neck and emboldened by this samurai ethic, my arm felt like a weapon, forged from the same completely ridiculous, utterly badass lineage.
Something gave.
Something in the elbow squirmed like a worm on a hook. My grip, and the strength that possessed it fell away. The arm dropped limp to my side and I grabbed for it, trying to steady the rubbery flailing beneath the skin.
“You fool, what have you done?” the doctor asked with disgust. “I told you to hold it still.”
“I didn’t mean to do anything,” I replied, sounding guilty.
“You were supposed to do nothing. You let it all contract. All of that shit it your elbow works like rubber bands. When you fell and hit the rail, they tore away from the bones, and were stretched to a point where small ruptures and fraying happened all over the chord. For the last two months, that has been healing, but like anything else, there is scar tissue. It’s like dipping the rubber bands in crazy glue. There is a crust of the stuff.”
“So why did everything contract?”
“Healing takes up the slack.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you”
“I think you did, but it doesn’t matter. That wasn’t my neck you were squeezing; it barely felt like anything. You probably just dislodged 2 months worth of scar tissue. It’s like picking a scab. Of course your arm is still strong, but those tendons aren’t ready to do anything with that leverage yet. Every time you force something like that, you’ll set yourself back weeks, if not months.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes, that about sums it up. Anything else you want to know about your fucked elbow?”
“How long, I was psyched about the spring rugby…”
“You should never play rugby again. Those tendons aren’t going to reattach to the bones. There will always be slack, and even mild jarring could dislocate the bones”
“Fuck that, there has got to…”
“No.”
“But could…”
“No. "
_______________
Thank you medical science. Hey, after you’re done telling me I’m fucked, would you mind putting me on the advance waiting list for one of those Terminator arms? Stuff to do, people to choke.
Luckily, Dr. Killjoy was not the final word in this matter. There was a cure:
Pushups.
Three weeks into physical therapy, after the electric field stimulus and the deep tissue massaging type bullshit, the therapist let that little nugget slip. By filling up as much space around the joint as possible with muscle, the less the slack elbow would bother me.
Now we’re fucking talking. 18 inch pythons here I come. Pushups, I can handle.
So I tried one. I didn’t try another until several days, and a fairly disturbing quantity of percocet later. By June, I could do twenty-five pushups before shit got really wobbly. I can rest for a little bit and do 25 more. Lather rinse repeat. Alright, progress. It was late summer at this point and there wasn’t a lot of rugby I was interested in playing.
The phrase “mild jarring,” and the associated potential of re-FUBARing the elbow were still problems. No point in playing if it meant playing like a pussy. This required scientific testing. Fortunately, the result arrived of its own volition. It was the patented NYC taxi no-look, no-hesitation, right on red. Right into where I was drunkenly meandering. I was trying to beat the last flashes of the orange palm, which I now understand are the international symbol for “you are about to be killed by a cab.”
It was a relatively low speed altercation, and the rag doll factor saved me from much damage. The cabby’s window rolled down, he took a peek to make sure I wasn’t anyone important, and went on his way. Sitting on the curb, I looked down, and broke into a smile.
My arm was still there.
Still attached, not lying half through the sewer grate, no bloody stump, no bones protruding, no rubbery feeling; my arm felt fucking solid. Now, said cab being approximately Pablo’s size, and perhaps running with Renee-esque inertia, this felt like a fucking reliable test. Five-star government side impact rating. Fully approved for ongoing mouse usage, shark bashing, pint raising, relentless masturbation, and…rugby.
Motherfuckers, I will play again.
Which brings us to Sept 1, 2007, and its scheduled friendly match with Providence. I have no alligator arms over this, literally or figuratively. We will march on a road of bones with the ball firmly in my hell-grip.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
My grip tightened.
With indifference, I considered the doctor’s life. For a thousand years, the master smiths of Japan tested their blades on the prone bodies of petty criminals and peasants. No weapon was considered suitable for a warrior until it went through this bloody tempering. Staring at his neck and emboldened by this samurai ethic, my arm felt like a weapon, forged from the same completely ridiculous, utterly badass lineage.
Something gave.
Something in the elbow squirmed like a worm on a hook. My grip, and the strength that possessed it fell away. The arm dropped limp to my side and I grabbed for it, trying to steady the rubbery flailing beneath the skin.
“You fool, what have you done?” the doctor asked with disgust. “I told you to hold it still.”
“I didn’t mean to do anything,” I replied, sounding guilty.
“You were supposed to do nothing. You let it all contract. All of that shit it your elbow works like rubber bands. When you fell and hit the rail, they tore away from the bones, and were stretched to a point where small ruptures and fraying happened all over the chord. For the last two months, that has been healing, but like anything else, there is scar tissue. It’s like dipping the rubber bands in crazy glue. There is a crust of the stuff.”
“So why did everything contract?”
“Healing takes up the slack.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you”
“I think you did, but it doesn’t matter. That wasn’t my neck you were squeezing; it barely felt like anything. You probably just dislodged 2 months worth of scar tissue. It’s like picking a scab. Of course your arm is still strong, but those tendons aren’t ready to do anything with that leverage yet. Every time you force something like that, you’ll set yourself back weeks, if not months.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes, that about sums it up. Anything else you want to know about your fucked elbow?”
“How long, I was psyched about the spring rugby…”
“You should never play rugby again. Those tendons aren’t going to reattach to the bones. There will always be slack, and even mild jarring could dislocate the bones”
“Fuck that, there has got to…”
“No.”
“But could…”
“No. "
_______________
Thank you medical science. Hey, after you’re done telling me I’m fucked, would you mind putting me on the advance waiting list for one of those Terminator arms? Stuff to do, people to choke.
Luckily, Dr. Killjoy was not the final word in this matter. There was a cure:
Pushups.
Three weeks into physical therapy, after the electric field stimulus and the deep tissue massaging type bullshit, the therapist let that little nugget slip. By filling up as much space around the joint as possible with muscle, the less the slack elbow would bother me.
Now we’re fucking talking. 18 inch pythons here I come. Pushups, I can handle.
So I tried one. I didn’t try another until several days, and a fairly disturbing quantity of percocet later. By June, I could do twenty-five pushups before shit got really wobbly. I can rest for a little bit and do 25 more. Lather rinse repeat. Alright, progress. It was late summer at this point and there wasn’t a lot of rugby I was interested in playing.
The phrase “mild jarring,” and the associated potential of re-FUBARing the elbow were still problems. No point in playing if it meant playing like a pussy. This required scientific testing. Fortunately, the result arrived of its own volition. It was the patented NYC taxi no-look, no-hesitation, right on red. Right into where I was drunkenly meandering. I was trying to beat the last flashes of the orange palm, which I now understand are the international symbol for “you are about to be killed by a cab.”
It was a relatively low speed altercation, and the rag doll factor saved me from much damage. The cabby’s window rolled down, he took a peek to make sure I wasn’t anyone important, and went on his way. Sitting on the curb, I looked down, and broke into a smile.
My arm was still there.
Still attached, not lying half through the sewer grate, no bloody stump, no bones protruding, no rubbery feeling; my arm felt fucking solid. Now, said cab being approximately Pablo’s size, and perhaps running with Renee-esque inertia, this felt like a fucking reliable test. Five-star government side impact rating. Fully approved for ongoing mouse usage, shark bashing, pint raising, relentless masturbation, and…rugby.
Motherfuckers, I will play again.
Which brings us to Sept 1, 2007, and its scheduled friendly match with Providence. I have no alligator arms over this, literally or figuratively. We will march on a road of bones with the ball firmly in my hell-grip.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
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