"Probably Not Structural"

What else to do but ramble about the cruelty of fate, the vicissitudes of life, the uncertainties of the day-to-day? Play "Melissa" over and over on YouTube, a melancholic ballad from a long time ago. "Crossroads, will you ever let him go? Will you hide the dead man's ghost?"

Maybe it's the dead father's ghost that creeps back into the corporeal Me, the departed Major with his gout and hernias and bypasses, with his infidelities, his proud Navy service, his bitterness. I insisted they administer the morphine drip instead of cutting off his dead leg and he died in that wretched rehab clinic just five miles from the sanctuary of his beloved home of 50 years. Maybe it's payback time.

The black cloud, the fetid breath of alcoholic clowns, sinusy in resignation.

Chiropractor takes one look at my ballooned-up knee and declares "It's not sciatica. And it's not a problem with your hips."

"But," I reply, "Master Yang says that the problem is my hips and lower back, that the knee is just a symptom."

"I completely disagree."

Next stop? The Western Medicine Doctor in white coat and an office icy with air conditioning. I explain my history, that something just like this occurred in my right knee some two years ago. He reviews the saga as recorded in my EMR (electronic medical record). Lyme Disease tests (negative), some form of osteo-something-or-other patella growth (nope), gout (not).

"Given that this has happened before, I would say your current problem is not structural. I don't think seeing an orthopedist is necessary. Better go back to the rheumatologist."

But first, the lab. Blood work. Test again for Lyme Disease.

"Can I get a prescription for painkillers?" The Big Question. There's a push against doctors prescribing pain meds across the board. It's a nation-wide trend. I'm prepared for him to deny me. He doesn't. Tramadol, 30 doses. I guess that the size of the knee and the extraordinary pain resulting from the slightest touch to the knee cap convinces Mr. GQ Doctor. His name is Dr. DeMartino, a name I immediately turn into DiMartini. So, a brace of de martinis and a hand full of painkillers, that's worth my $20 co-payment. It cures nothing but it changes everything, if temporarily.

Systemic. Something curdling inside. Something insidious like a wandering nematode, like obeyah, like a spurt of festered karma.

But what has happened is not related to cycling, I'm convinced of that. This is not for lack of stretching, or a repetitive motion injury, or from having a poorly adjusted bike seat. That is good. Biking is the practice that keeps me sane and healthy but biking cannot prevent the emergence of the Poisonous Gall.

Nine days now, and counting. On the cusp of the 4th of July and in a few days my 52nd birthday. Ten days ago I was merrily cavorting, happy in my 60+ rides worth of conditioning, content at a steady 145 lbs (college weight), assured in my hale self. Now? Cane in hand, I tread carefully one leaden leg at a time up the carpeted stairs to the 2nd floor of Chez Shad; timid steps, old man steps.

"Freight train. Each car looks the same. No one knows the gypsy's name."

Indeed. Sweet Melissa in a bottle of Mass Rising. It's July 3rd and 90 degrees and humid. There's a hurricane down the coast and coming our way. Without the Affliction, I'd be riding like a man possessed and savoring the purging sweat, pumping it out, hurtling my way on two wheels through the soupy summer air. As it is, I'm marooned. I can sit for a while but as soon as I stand and straighten my leg, a powder keg of agony explodes across the knee. I can sleep only on my back. Lying prone, I cannot raise my left leg. I cannot turn over at night. I am a lump log of sloth sack. A flat plank of stank unpleasantness.

Here's the thing. It could be worse. Until you're diagnosed with terminal cancer, or told that you'll never be able to ride again, or informed that the person you love is dead, then hope persists. Best to embrace the Buddhist practice of acceptance, of mindfulness and equanimity in the face of proportional despair. Doing so is every bit as difficult as a Zen koan.

"It's all a mystery. Let it come and let it be."

Cleveland Botanical Gardens
July 1, 2014