Spring Break can be rough on the body. Whether alcohol ravaged your liver or your threw out your back gyrating your way onto a "Girls Gone Wild" video, your fellow collegiates can certainly feel your pain. With this bond in mind, Jean Ellen Cowgill asks for a sympathetic ear.
I was going to write about something uber-Dartmouthy this week per usual, but sitting here in the orthopedist's waiting room between Herman, who just rolled in from the nursing home and keeps blinking at me, and a poster depicting rows and rows of neon-haired Treasure Trolls (why did we ever collect those creepy things?), Dartmouth seems far, far away. So here I go, elementary school-style, with "What I Did (and Pulled) on my Spring Break."
The adductor: A muscle in the inner thigh with which I was unacquainted until this past week. While some of you were lounging on an exotic beach somewhere and others (like me) were at home trying to get something accomplished on their theses when not being pestered by siblings, I managed to injure this problematic muscle and landed myself on crutches.
I certainly don't want to imply that this pulled muscle is anywhere in the realm of the serious injuries some of you have suffered. In fact, that is precisely the problem with a pulled leg muscle -- you feel downright silly.
When, for example, concerned little southern church ladies come up to you on Easter Sunday to ask, "Hunny, what haaave you done?" and you say you think you pulled something, you can tell that they are thinking through their own injuries over the past few years: broken hips, knee surgeries, kidney stones. They have deemed you a wimp, but not to your face, of course. Such is the Southern way.
I am inclined to agree with them. To warrant the use of crutches, I feel like I need a cast or one of those blue orthopedic boots or, at the very least, an ace bandage somewhere. The girl sitting across from me has a blue boot and a hot pink cast. No one can question her right to crutches. I think she's silently judging me.
It doesn't help that my crutches are totally grim. My family happened to have a wooden pair from the late 1950s, previously used by my grandfather. My mother has tried to convince me that they are "vintage." I'm not sold. At Easter dinner, my cousin told me they looked like something the elementary school nurse dug out of the closet.
An older gentleman just hobbled past with a titanium set, looking very fashionable. I think he snubbed me, that crutches snob.
I also think I might be able to get back to see the doctor faster if I appeared to be in more distress. This orthopedist's office, according my mother notorious for keeping patients waiting for hours, is "working me in" the schedule, so it looks like I'm here for the long haul. If the receptionist goes in order of who looks like the more serious case, Herman wins by a long shot with his wheelchair, bifocals, orthopedic shoes and sad little hat.
On the other hand, Elizabeth Taylor (yup, that's her name) just got called back, and she looked relatively fine except for her tendency to imitate a parrot -- rapidly darting gazes around the room. Maybe because she complained to the receptionist that another patient must have stolen her appointment. Or maybe said receptionist noticed that Liz was slowly sliding her way across the seats to Herman and was concerned about the consequences of such an impending confrontation. Lots of frenetic blinking on both sides, that's for certain. Apparently the crazies go first, and Herman just started mumbling -- he's upping his game.
-- several hours pass --
Well, my friends, it turns out I have an "incipient stress fracture of the left distal femur," which, I have to say, makes me feel slightly more entitled to the crutches. However, I still don't have any other sweet ortho-accessories.
"Basically, it's as if your femur was wood and I bored holes into it. And then your knee is like a hammer, banging away at the wood full of holes. The wood's about to snap," said Andrew Ryan '84, my orthopedic surgeon. Um, ow?
Dr. Ryan and I conversed about his days writing a column for the Jack-O-Lantern ("That still exists? I thought the College would have shut that down by now."), playing golf ("The athletes do better in the real world.") and participating as a member of Zeta-Psi ("Only a matter of time before it comes back."). When I asked him about continuing my marathon training, he laughed -- not a good sign, running buddies. He recommended I get the remaining Zetes to carry my books for me. Hmmph.
Well, Dartmouth, after I hobble back onto campus, I promise to return to a more appropriate, more Mirror-ish topic. I hope to see some of the more charitable among you in the Manchester airport (who wants to drag my bags?). I'll be the one wandering around on the "old school crutches," as Dr. Ryan kindly referred to them. And if any Zetes would like to carry my thesis books for me, don't hesitate to Blitz "Jean Ellen." As Dr. Ryan and my mother schemed, you might be able to count it as the phil you need to get re-recognized.
Jean Ellen is a staff writer for The Mirror. She'll probably run her marathon anyway.
