Catch You On The Flip Side
Tomorrow, at some point, it will officially become the wettest November in the recorded weather history of western Washington .
Also, at approximately 10 a.m. (PST), I will begin to count backward from 100 and soon thereafter have arthroscopic surgery.
Coincidence? I think not.
At any rate, I'm assured I will have a waterproof dressing, although that's more for taking a shower. Still. I feel positive.
See ya when I can type. Here's tomorrow's column, by the way. Something to remember me by in case things go horribly, horribly wrong. Or the Beacon Web site gets rained out.
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Three weeks ago I drove to Everett, filled out some forms, changed into a pair of paper shorts, and slid into an MRI (Minimal Room Inside) tube. An apparently bored technician spent 20 minutes taking pictures of my left shoulder while I listened to U2 and Beatles songs, and by the time I was home a radiologist had already viewed the scans and dictated his findings. Soon after that, the report was transcribed and I assume faxed over to my doctor, whose office informed me the next day that I indeed had torn one of my rotator cuff tendons.
"Which one?" I asked. "Umm, you want the fancy name?"
"The fancier the better," I said.
It was my supraspinatus, as it turns out, the one that goes over the shoulder, which I looked up on the Internet. There were plenty of terms to look up, actually, as my doctor kindly mailed me a copy of the MRI report. Impingement syndrome. Joint effusion. Arthritis. Downsloping acromion. Osteophyte formation.
Wait. Arthritis? I'm only 48. I thought arthritis came when you got, you know...I mean...that is...
Oh. Right. Sorry. I forgot.
To someone with a downsloping acromion, the orthopedist explained, a rotator cuff tear can happen at any time of life, but I can't help feeling this is a wake-up call to remind me that the road ahead is paved with speed bumps. Just in case I get an urge to play softball EVER AGAIN.
I've also realized that I'm in a very specific age group. That is, assuming I live to be 96, which is frankly not something I'd be hopping on a plane to Vegas in order to get a bet down on, I'm middle-aged. Middle middle-aged, if you want to be nice. Guys 10 years older are busy stuffing money right and left into their IRAs and 401Ks, while those 10 years younger are still playing in pick-up basketball games (the fools).
So we're special, those of us a few years on either side of the big Five-Oh, 40-somethings or 50-somethings, with an identifiable pathology, which I'll call The Something Syndrome (patent pending). And with a hat tip to the late Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, Something Syndrome comes in five sequential stages, starting with
Denial. This is a biggie. Denial jogs on the side of the road so slow the squirrels are laughing. Denial eats pizza when it knows heartburn will happen. Denial carries a prescription for Viagra that will never be filled. Denial will not, under any circumstances, wish to look at the back of its head for fear of what it will (actually, will not) see. You could hit the back of my head with an axe and open up a five-inch gaping wound and I wouldn't ask for a mirror. There could be a "kick me" sticker there right now and I'd never know. Because to look back there most likely would push me into the second stage, which is
Anger. Something Syndrome men generally manifest anger over aging at inanimate objects, usually transmissions, although football referees are also a common target. Guys with SS are also frequent callers to radio talk shows. Wives and other loved ones are cautioned to stay out of the room and wait for the third stage to come along, as it will, which is
Bargaining. This is why there are five gyms within a two-mile radius of my house. A Something Syndrome guy suffers under the delusion that he can overcome 30 years of inactivity simply by spending a hundred bucks a month for a membership and finding a personal trainer named Trish. Marketers of all sorts love men like us, because we perpetuate Ephemeral Capitalism; that is, they sell something we buy but won't use, then buy it again. It cuts way down on the overhead. We eventually give up, drag our 30 exercise machines out on the front lawn and sell them on Saturday to middle-aged women, who will actually use them, something we instinctively understand, which leads us to
Depression. It bums me out to write about this one. Plus, I'm running out of room, so I'll just move on to
Acceptance. This is where I am. By the time you read this, I will have undergone arthroscopic surgery to repair my aging shoulder. I'll probably be lying in bed, watching old "Star Trek" episodes that my daughter promised to send me. Eventually I'll undergo physical therapy, and I'll dutifully perform my exercises, possibly under the supervision of somebody named Trish, and I will never attempt to field a fly ball again.
By the first of the year, in fact, the doctors say I should be good as new, which is of course a lie but I'll take what I can get. I have to get ready for a big garage sale in the spring, after all, when I'll divest myself of the trappings of foolish dreams and prepare for the rest of my life. Stop by if you want. Your wife can get a good deal on a Soloflex.
There'll be mirrors, too.
7:58:05 PM 
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