Alexandra Vaillancourt
Dateline Boston — Earlier this week I went to get my MRI read. I was so nervous that the doctor would tell me they didn’t find anything, and that I was just getting old. When the receptionist asked me who I was seeing, I mistakenly gave her the name of the nurse I had seen, not the doctor I was supposed to see. She asked me if my name was Mary Smith. My name is not Mary Smith. “Oh please don’t tell me there’s a problem,” I replied. “I’m going to have a heart attack.” She told me to calm down. I looked up the name of the doctor I was supposed to see, and she said my actual name. At least I had filled out all my paperwork ahead of time. The receptionist was proud of me.
I waited nervously for my name to be called. It only took five minutes. The nurse who took my vitals was so cheerful, all my nervousness went away. Almost. I told her that I wanted the doctor to find something. If he didn’t, she’d better show me where the tissue box was. She laughed. I relaxed again.
After a minute the doctor breezed in, accompanied by a scribe. He was a strikingly good looking man, with smooth skin and a sharp outfit. He crooned, “So what happened?” I told him that I was watching TV one night, and when I stood up, I had a sharp pain in my knee. He brought up my X-ray and my MRI. I asked him if this was the first time he had seen it. He said that he had read it the night before, but he hadn’t looked at it. I guess I got a look on my face, because he said, “Hold on, I’ll tell you. I know what it is.” I began to get excited. I screeched, “You do?” Then I sounded like I was in church on Sunday. “Praise the Lord!”
What Do Spots Mean?
He first showed me the X-ray, a normal knee, nothing special. Then we went to the MRI. He said, “Oh, my! Look at this!” I craned my neck. He showed me two big white spots on either side of my kneecap. He told me they were bone bruises. Again, I got a look on my face. I yelled, “Praise Jesus, I’m not crazy!” He asked me what I did to my knee. I said I didn’t do anything! I asked how one usually got an injury like this, and he replied that if you were struck with something…I interrupted, “Like that ice skater with the crowbar?” He cracked up, and said, “Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding?” We both looked at the scribe, and Doc said, “You’re too young.” She whined, “I read about it!” So I wasn’t hit with a metal bar. He said if I was in a car accident, if I was a basketball player, if I worked too hard at the gym…
I didn’t do any of those things. He asked me what I did for work, and I told him that I was a nanny, and had worked with children for 30 years. He told me that I probably did more than 20 squats a day, which could be very hard on my knees. He had me get up on the examination table and manipulated my knee. He pressed here, nothing. He touched here, nothing. Twist, nope. Then he touched my knee in such a way as to inflict serious pain. I raised my hand and said, “Okay, that’s it!” He quickly mumbled some medical jargon to the scribe, who took it all down with lightning speed.
Matter of Pride
He gave me a writeup that was full of doctorese. He had circled a phrase, “insufficiency fracture.” He told me that’s what I had, that it would take 12 weeks to heal. He told me to avoid stairs, and to rest when I could. He asked if I was okay. I told him I was so happy to have answers, it was great. He asked me if I liked shots. I said YES, and he prepared an injection. Last time I got an injection I didn’t ask anything about it. I asked him what he was giving me. He said it was Kenalog. I repeated the word so I would remember. “Kellogg.” “KENalog!” he said. I told him I had to say Kellogg so I would remember it what it sounded like. Doctor Smooth said he would see me in eight weeks. He repeated my diagnosis, “insufficiency fracture,” then floated out of the room: “Bye!”
On my way out, I ran into the orthopedic nurse I had seen weeks before. I puffed up my chest with pride and told her, “I have an insufficiency fracture! I’m not crazy!” She said, “Oh! Well, I told you you weren’t crazy.” I thanked her again, and said, marching down the hall, “I love this office!” She said to her staff, “Did you hear that?” I beamed at the receptionist. I told her they found something and I was so happy. I made my eight-week followup appointment, and updated my Facebook status from the hospital.
Perhaps I knocked my knee on a coffee table, or got struck by accident while at work. Might have been one of those times I hit my knee hard, yelled and rubbed it, then went back to the business of caring for children. In any case, I’ll spend the next 12 weeks taking it easy. No autumn hikes for me. I will seek out elevators. And look up what Kenalog actually is, because I forgot to ask.
Ms. Vaillancourt may be contacted at snobbyblog@gmail.com