“If I could just move my knees without hurting, I know I could walk,” the old traveler winced.
He had a lot going on: blood infection, kidney failure, aches in every joint. While everything else started to improve, the joint aches still bothered him.
“When I was in Africa years ago, I remember they gave me a shot in the shoulder for my shoulder ache. The next day, every ache in my body was gone. I felt like I was eighteen again,” he told me in one of his many global adventure stories. “Do you do that kind of voodoo here, heh?”
“You’ve had these multiple joint aches for years? Before this infection?” I asked.
“As long as I can remember.”
Face palm. This changed the picture a bit. Most of the docs and consultants had been focusing on the infection as the source of his joint aches, not unheard of with blood infections. But the whitecoat parade was gone now, and only the aches, and myself remained.
“It was probably a steroid shot,” I guessed. The tests and consultations would take all night, but I had a hunch I could make him better right now.
So I did what they tell you in medical school not to do, I treated something without knowing what I was treating.
“We’ll try a small dose of I.V. steroids today. It can’t hurt… too much,” I explained as he eagerly gave me his permission.
Maybe he had gout. Or rheumatoid arthritis. Or yes, even lupus. Or idiopathic polyathritis (which is how we say “I don’t know”). I secretly hoped none of my consultants would stop by in the next twenty-four hours, look at my note, and say “what the fuck are you doing?”
The next morning I asked with a hesitant heart, “So how are you feeling today?”
“Look,” he said as he kicked his legs out from under the sheets, “I’m eighteen again, haha!”
“Wow,” I was hoping for a little improvement, but this stunned me.
“Nothing hurts. I can walk,” he became excited,
“And I had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamt that there was a Japanese woman in a kimono, I don’t know why, at the foot of my bed sewing a black quilt. Then she got up and walked out with it, but one of the black threads was tied to my foot. It dragged me out of my bed down the hall. I called to her but she couldn’t hear me. Then I untied the thread and ran back to my door. I realized I could walk again.”
“That’s pretty … imaginative,” I replied.
“This is amazing!”
It wasn’t a miracle. His kidneys were still shot to hell. But it did feel like a small but significant victory somewhere.
“At least now we know how to make that better. We just don’t know what it is. I think we’re going to have to ask the rheumatologist to see you now … and tell us what it was we just cured.”
“We” … I say that because I never feel comfortable taking all the credit, or all the blame for that matter either.
I cringed wondering how I was going to explain to the rheumatologist why I treated something without knowing what I was treating.
“We have the cure. Now we just need to find the disease,” I said half to myself.
“Whatever you say,” he shook my hand enthusiastically, “Wanna see me chase some nurses?”
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THE RETURN OF THE MANWHORE
The response to my pictures in the previous post was quite the day maker, so I figured I’d put the rejected pics up too. They’re pretty much the same. Only gayer.
. That’s kind of how I look at it. I’m 38. Or 39 in Corea. Or 266 in dog years. And today I bought my current favorite xbox game – Bikini Samurai Squad, mostly because of the bikinis.