singing lessons

I was in desperate need of cardiovascular rehabilitation.
Physical therapy was the next obvious step for me, but I couldn't do it. Because of my problem with drugs and alcohol I had refused the oxy and vicoden, but now I was in too much pain to exercise. My muscles hadn't atrophied, but they had become full of lactic acid from disuse. The physical therapists were afraid to work with me. I was in too much pain.
If you picture a skull and crossbones, you can imagine where the bones flare out at the end with two knobs. This is where the tendons connect the bone to the muscle. That is the reason for the additional mass at the end of the bone; to support the connective tissue that allows our joints to move. I am missing a lot of that bone. No knobs.
My situation was spiraling downward, I couldn't move (intermittent paralysis) because I was sick; and I couldn't get better because I couldn't move. I had to get my blood pumping.
Along time ago, when mohawks ruled the earth, I sang. Singing is quite a workout if you're doing it right. I reasoned I could begin my cardiovascular rehabilitation singing. I brought this up to my Doctor and her gentle, pitiful encouragement really clued me in that she wasn't 100% on board with my whole "get better" scheme. Luckily for this Celtic warrior, fear rises to rage in just a short while. So now I'm motivated to get well to spite my Doctor. Fa-lalala-la!
I rounded up a few players to jam some tunes in a friend's house. Bossa's, blues and Bacharach in the basement. My ankles were too lifeless to step over the music cables snaking this way and that across the floor, I shuffled to a bar-stool (insert irony here), and sat in front of a mic.
Unlike riding a bicycle, elephants do forget and it took me a few trys to find my voice. I could feel this working.
The musicians came and went in a blur of dirty jokes and stolen riffs. Lyrics from the radio, chords from the web. I added voice lessons to my regimen. Pretty soon we had a group meeting once a week covering Otis, Aretha, Sam and Dave. And pretty soon I was well enough to go to the gym, my cardio rehab had begun.
"The Hep-tet" is now a nine piece classic R&B band, with a horn section!

Physical Therapy

I got a lot out of physical therapy, because I went to appointments. The reason I could go is that I did not take the pain killers. Physical therapy hurts; pain is taboo, so folks don't show up for their PT sessions. Sitting in front of the TV stoned on Oxy is not taboo, it's ghetto fabulous. Folks seem to dig that. I just really wanted to be able to feed and groom myself (and the other thing), so I bit my lip and took it like a wincing, whining man.
The physical therapists were the first people to tell me I could recover. That I could build muscle to do the work of bone. The wheelchair and narcotics, even amputation were the alternatives. So the effort seemed well worth it. Here, I began to get the feeling that I was alone. Other patients were rolling home to get stoned and here I was trying to stand unaided. Why? Why wont anyone cosign my bullshit?
Luckily, I worked with some fine individuals, I trusted them. Once, a PT lifted my leg up to a forty five degree angle as I lay supine. I lost consciousness from the pain. I came to in a split second. The PT was concerned. She said she couldn't work with me if I was in that much pain. We had discussed this before, Hospital policy demands your pain survey shows improvement, or the insurance cuts you off from further visits.
So I lied. Although I was sober, I said I had a rough night, that it was a bachelor party; and I had just dozed off. She knew it was a lie, but continued for me. (Thanks)
My Doctor was hesitant to give me a referral to a specialist. As yet, I still had no diagnosis and my prognosis was poor. I wanted more information, but there were bureaucratic obstacles to my health care. After months of demanding I was reduced to begging. Why couldn't I see another Doctor? Public health insurance wouldn't pay for it? Why not?
The Primary Care Physician is a gate keeper, to open the gate, I needed to supply her with a question to be answered by the specialist. A question that would satisfy the paperwork for bureaucracy and justify the referral.
The Physical therapist believed in the possibility of my complete recovery; I asked her to help me phrase the question. A sexy fire of indignation glowed in her dark eyes. Across an entire page of her office stationary she wrote in felt tip.
"WHY CAN'T MR FAY WALK?"
I was misdirected to search for a more clinical question. The stark simplicity of her query pleased me. Her rebellious gleam turned me on. I was going to have to fight wasn't I? This wasn't like a Doctor show on cable at all, this was a Russian novel. I always admired dissidents. Now was my chance, not to be an enemy of the State, but the State health-care machine.
I had my question to bring to my Doctor for the referral to a specialist.
I learned a lot in physical therapy, sometimes good things hurt.

The Podiatrist loses control!

My x-rays and other tests were rolling in, but not really illuminating my condition. I had demanded some appointments with specialists. My Doctor refused me the service, "until I was done with physical therapy"; but I fought her and I got "the referrals".
"Referral" is one of those Orwellian words that insurance companies foist on
healthcare professionals. These decisions are not in the best interest of the patient.
I liked the Podiatrist right away, a ruggedly handsome liberal Sox-fan from Brookline. Speak my language bay-bee.
No one had be able to evaluate my x-rays yet. I knew what to expect when my film appeared on the screen. I'd seen this before: the Doctor or Nurse begins mousing around the border of the screen and asking me questions to verify my identity. The Podiatrist, went past the usual two or three; he turned to me.
"Are you named after your father or grandfather? Were they ever patients here"?
"Yes and no" I replied.
He was starting to scare me, staring at his computer.
"These can't be your x-rays, they're not the x-rays of a living human being"
Terror is a little like acid. And things were getting far-out.
"Those are my x-rays Dr, I recognize them"
He pulled at the sides of his hair and moaned "no,no,no". He rolled his chair back and around too quickly, like a kid. Covering his face with his hands, he jumped up and said, "OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod".
This is poor protocol for an initial consultation I think.
Sometimes in life we have role reversal. I have encountered this many times with medical professionals and their administrative staff. This is another thing about twentyfirst century medicine Doctor Shows did not prepare me for; the patient never becomes the caregiver on TV.
I said "It's OK Doctor, just tell me"
"This is a perfect storm" he said.
Well obviously, I thought. I was starting to see colors.
He saw my cane (coffee colored aluminum with caramel and bronze swirls from Duane Read in Manhattan, to match my hats), and squealed "You WALKED from the parking lot?!"
"From my apartment ten blocks away" I confessed, I'm not proud of this. It was insane. The ground was covered in ice, even businesses in Chelsea do not shovel the snow out to the street. Before the "T" awarded me a travel benefit (on appeal), and when my friends couldn't chauffeur, I hobbled slowly down the side of the road. Intermittently seeing stars, I perspired through my clothes.
"How?" he pleaded, "This is devastating bone loss! You should be in a wheelchair!"
There was that word again. "Wheelchair". My primary care physician had chased me around with one trying to make my get in it. To the addict in me, the Oxycontin/wheelchair/carton of cigs lifestyle has a powerful allure. Hard to grasp if you don't get it; indelible if you do. Writing this down is my attempt to say the why and how of what happened. Perhaps this is ineffable.
Once again, I dismissed the offer to give up on my own mobility and roll off with the the bag of benny's and benefits in the silver chair.
"How" he said again. My wet socks and Crocks telling tales.
"Vitamin "R", I knew the answer. "Rage". The Podiatrist stopped and looked at me, hearing what I had said. My examination had begun in earnest.
The Doctor will see you now.
My bad feet, ankles and knees were catching up to me. My earliest memories are of my feet hurting. Everywhere I had walked, I had walked in spite of the pain. I can get angry enough to blow your house down.
"A perfect storm to sink my ship?"
"We don't see this kind of bone loss even in the third world..."
This was like a bad trip and I needed to come down now.
"The good news is you're finally here"
"I've been trying to get this referral for months" I chided.
"This has been going on for years, maybe congenital.."
"What's been going on?"
"Several things I think, you have a confluence of symptoms, that create a perfect storm..."
He couldn't say it, but I had always known. Joked about it all my life.
Although I was sober and drug free, I knew I was headed for a blackout. Oblivion is my default happy place, which sucks by the way.
We had been talking about one foot, not even the worst one. That's how the tests were allotted, the benefit meted out; only one foot was x-rayed and MRI'd. I knew whatever was wrong with foot one was wrong with the other foot and my hands as well. When the Doctor told me that amputation would stop the spread of osteonecrosis into the trunk, which is fatal, I knew that he meant my prognosis was quad-amputee. He continued to explain but I was gone from the room, only my body was present. My mind was not. I had stuff to think about.
That is no longer my prognosis :-) and the Podiatrist is one of my favorite Doctors. He has no filters, but he's hot.

Getting out of the Doctor's office without a bag of pills.

Getting out of the Doctor's office without a bag of pills isn't as easy as "just say no". They want you have a little "sumthin' suntin".
I was in the process of getting x-rays, MRI's and other "boy in a bubble" type tests; this means something is wrong. Something is wrong and they can't tell what it is by listening to your heart and shinning a light down your throat. So it's bad!
I was scared, and sober; so I felt scared. Emotions are hard. I was looking out the huge display windows of my gift shop. It was cold and gently raining.
In the park across the street, a junkie slept peacefully in his wheelchair as the wind piled wet leaves against his tires. I knew this could be me soon. This image holds me spellbound. Some are attracted to actors or athletes. I have a disease that glamorizes dehumanization. Others fantasize about trading places with a player who has it all; I fantasize about oblivion. An oblivion to all types of cold and rain. I was scared, and sober; so I felt scared. Emotions are hard.
I had told my Doctor upon meeting her that I was in recovery from alcohol and drug use. Her "Good for YOU!" was more good policy than bon mot. If only it were that simple!
When I declined her first offer of Vicoden, she spoke Street when she offered more.
"Oxy?" she purred, like a Drag Queen in the men's room.
"No" I said, I told you, I'm in recovery.
"Vicoden is perfectly safe for you" she said.
"Who told you that? " I asked.
They always ask us if we have questions, and then take umbrage when we do. Aww.
This health-care professional, and others like her were surprised over and over again when I didn't want drugs, a wheelchair, or an amputation. At one point she said "Don't you get it? You can go home, we're talkin' FULL DISABILITY here!" Like I had won the lottery.
Some people become their diagnosis, this, I would not do. I didn't expect down right adversity from the medical profession.
I requested she make a note on my chart, but the next visit I was offered narcotics again, and then again. I said I was afraid to be alone with her, and I wanted the exam room door open even if I was undressed (Gay). Our confrontation was out of control, she brought up Vicoden once more and I was miserable with temptation. I had calculated the street value of the prescriptions I had refused at $80,000 annually. My resolve halfhearted, my resistance, wavering.
I told my Doctor I wanted a nurse in the exam room with us, that I didn't want to be alone with her if she couldn't remember not to offer me drugs.
She said that was only if the patient was sexually intimidated by the Doctor. She said this in a "nanny, nanny boo-boo" voice. I exploded. Taunting me? No way bitch.
I said I was sexually intimidated by her and that I want a nurse present at all times.
She collapsed in a heap in a chair too small for her and said:
"please don't do this to me..."
'Then make a note on my file; remind yourself not to offer me narcotics.."
"but, everyone can see your file", meaning the nurses and other Doctors.
I pounded the flimsy desk till a pen rolled off, "Make a note!". I was too loud, "Make a note!", out of control, last straw, screaming "DO IT NOW!"
The battle was over but the war rages on. Even now that the crises is over and my life is back to abnormal, I get knocked into orbit around some Doctor unfamiliar with my file offering me something "perfectly"safe, like codeine.
Please don't feed the animals.