Humanity has taken an interest in the progress of my hurt leg. I am flattered and humbled by the outpouring of well-wishes, I am grateful to the throngs of people who took time from their busy lives to inquire about my thigh, and I am somewhat ashamed to admit I am not going to die, thus making all this concern a bit overblown and perhaps unwarranted.
Well, I am going to die, but probably not as a result of my leg injury. Unless, of course, I’m being chased by an old and enfeebled bear, who would, as a result of my injury, easily catch me for lunch (or dinner). I refer to an old and enfeebled bear because I would not be able to outrun a healthy bear, even at the peak of my physical condition.
First of all, let me give people the password to THIS POST. The password is ‘summabirch’.
I will once more warn people of the graphic nature of some of the images. Just bruises, really, but some people can’t stand to look at beautiful, manly, hairy legs marred by the aftereffect of an injury. To them I say . . . don’t go there.
So, I had my Orthopedic Doctor appointment today. The good news is that no tendons, joints, or bones are damaged. The bad news is that I ripped/tore/bruised at least three of my thigh muscles. Based on the location of the greatest pain when someone pokes really hard with their fingers, the muscles in question are likely the Pectineus, Sartorious, and Vastus medialis, although it could also be some of the adductor muscles.
No MRI required because the damage appears to be restricted to the muscles, and so doing an MRI would learn us ‘not much’.
The prognosis is 6-8 weeks of flexibility and mobility exercises while letting the muscles heal. The exercises are mainly to control the formation of scar tissue, making it possible to get as close to full mobility as we can. After that, strength training to, you know, regain strength in the affected area.
All in all it was a pleasant and informative meeting confirming what I mostly knew . . . it’s a muscle injury; there is no surgical fix, and there is no magic formula to recovery.
The unfortunate thing is that while muscle cramps are not uncommon, the resulting . . . here, let me recreate the situation. Imagine me sitting on the examination table, Melisa seated in the corner chair, and the doctor on one of them neat rolling stools.
We had met this doctor before when Melisa had injured her knee, so we were at ease, and we asked a lot of questions. Here’s the interesting exchange that, you know, made me a bit nervous. We’d just been joking about pain and frustration related to the road of recovery. We’re all smiling because, you know, that’s all it is, and not something worse.
Me: “So, I get it; therapy, recovery, eight weeks.”
Doctor: “Yup; you know the drill.”
Me: “I imagine you’ve seen this kind of thing before.”
Doctor (still smiling): “Nope.”
Me: “Ha-ha . . . wait, you’re serious!”
Doctor: “I know of leg cramps; never had a case where a cramp did this much damage.”
CRAP! . . . We have read on the internet these things sometimes happen when, you know, one is running a marathon, or drop-kicking broccoli across the Grand Canyon, or in other instances of someone doing some strenuous macho-maximus activity. In other words, these things have been known to happen during arduous physical activity.
I just got out of bed after a good night rest.
I asked if he could take a wild guess as to what might have triggered it. He suggested my regular doctor might have an answer. Well, double crap! The regular doctor is just going to repeat all of the stuff I already know about cramps (tons of stuff on the web), and likely do some blood work which, like the blood work they did at the ER, will determine my minerals are balanced, I have no deficiencies (at least below the neck), and my electrolytes are fine.
Translation? We ain’t got a clue why I had a cramp that felt like, and did, tore my thigh apart. I have zero confidence in my regular doctor finding a physical cause. Not because he’s no good; I like my doctor, but I happen to be one of them there healthy individuals with very few bad habits (I occasionally badmouth broccoli).
The concern, then, is something relating to the nervous system. Muscles obey signals from nerves. To me it felt like my leg was on fire (something very different from cramps I previously experienced).
I was hoping for a simple explanation (i.e. lay off the broccoli) leading to me diligently following directions so as to never, ever, ever, again experience something like this.
Instead, for all I know, this might be my way of life from now on. The universe out there, just waiting to wail on me whenever it feels like it. Bastard Universe!
So, here I am. I will dutifully resume my life, slowly building back up to the incredible peak of physical conditioning that was me, and all the while waiting for the next fateful moment when my muscles will be directed by some unknown force, and for no good reason, to rip themselves apart, teaching me no discernible lesson whatsoever.
By the way, the photos have nothing to do with the content of this post. It’s just that some people only look at the pictures, so those are for them.
That’s it. This post has ended . . . except for the stuff below.
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. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.