In between mopping up and waiting around for the electric guy and any number of other people, I've been trying to schedule some hip surgery. This usually means appointments with docs of various sorts, one of whom was a back doc because one of the hip docs was concerned that my back would not survive the hip surgery.
So the hip doc sends me to a back doc with an MRI order. The back doc has a name that sounds like a pharmacist. A name as free from sex appeal as, say, Mortimer Snerd. Someone who sounds over fifty. Someone comfortable in black socks and bermuda shorts.
Only the guy who walks into the examining room isn't a nerdly Snerd type, it's Hugh Jackson. He shook my hand and wondered why I was laughing. Actually, I was just smiling out loud. Private joke I told him. My experience with docs, especially the young ones, is that they don't examine women over a certain age. Unless you're at death's door, they don't touch you at all. Too much like poking around their moms, I think. EWWWW. They shake your hand and you show them where the pain is and they comment, without having to touch anything. In the five minutes we spent together [me being 65 and on Medicare] he said there was no need for an MRI -- that we all have stenosis and ratty disks as we age. He could tell as much from my plain ol' x-rays. So I should just get on with the surgery and we'll sort things out later. In other words, if my back suffers neurological damage from the surgery, he'll fix it. Well, thanks, doc.
To prove to me that I had nothing to worry about, he asked me to lift my left leg and hold it straight. I performed the task well. So he asked me to put my left leg down and do the same thing with my right leg. I passed that test too. Then he said to hold both my legs out straight while twisting and turning my ankles. No reflex tests or searching for numbness. All done.
And people wonder why I keep putting off hip surgery.