I have
arthritis.
I didn't find out I had it until last year when my right
leg began hurting. I went to my doctor, was referred to
a specialist and then the fun began.
“We’re going to run some tests to see what the problem
is,” the specialist told me.
”How many tests?” I asked.
“Lots and
lots of tests,” he replied.
I offered my opinion, hoping to avoid lots and lots of
tests. “I think it's arthritis,” I said.
He shook his head. “We will determine that with our lots
and lots of tests,” he said.
The tests lasted five hours. In the process, I was
poked, prodded, x-rayed and forced to walk past nurses
and others I didn¹t know in a backless hospital gown.
The results of my tests arrived a week later.
”You have arthritis,” the specialist said.
I was about to say “my, my” and enroll myself in medical
school, but resisted both urges.
I quickly discovered there isn’t much you can do if you
have arthritis. Most pain killers are off-limits.
Exercise, as near as I can tell, is okay, but it hurts
like hell. The best thing I’ve found to alleviate the
pain is beer. Lots and lots of beer.
When I went back to my specialist for my one-year
checkup, he told me I was in good shape for a
66-year-old man.
”What are you doing about your arthritis?” he asked.
”Limping,” I told him with a smile.
Before my diagnosis I never really paid much attention
to how Americans walk. Now I realize that many of us
limp. We limp at shopping malls and in churches and at
public swimming pools and at fishing lakes and
automobile dealerships and all professional sporting
events.
I’ve also found that arthritis tends to make you
somewhat self-conscious. If I see someone walking toward
me and he or she is limping, I try not to limp so he or
she won’t think I’m making fun of him or her.
Early-on, I fibbed about my uneven gait.
The first time a co-worker asked “What's wrong with your
leg?” I smiled and
said “Pearl Harbor. 1941.” Later, I switched to “Ohio
State-Michigan ’53.”
That was before I discovered there is a kind of bond
between arthritis sufferers.
Just yesterday I came face-to-face with another limping
man on a downtown street. “Arthritis?” he asked,
pointing to my leg.
”Uh, huh,” I replied with a smile.
Then he invited me out for a beer.
