A year to the day...

            Hard to believe, but it has been a full year now. A dozen months, to the day.

          A year ago this morning, I woke up alone in a hotel room, knowing I would not be going to the racetrack. I’d skip the elimination rounds at the drag race and drive home instead. I had to figure out a way to manage the pain, balance the need for pain relief meds with the need for a clear head while driving in order to get home safely.

          One year ago Amy met me at the door and asked if I was going to let her handle things. If not, she said, she would take the dog and live in a local hotel. Exhausted and unable to stand up straight, I acquiesced.

          It was the start of a long road. I was on my back for the next three weeks and only walked with the aid of crutches for three weeks more. Luckily for me, the next race on my schedule was during the Labor Day Weekend and I didn’t have to miss any work.

          It took seven months of physical rehab before the docs pronounced that I was good to go. Seven months of listening to that damn Ohio State music the personnel at the rehab joint loved to listen to. They sure shut up when Alabama won the national championship football game, I’ll tell you that. I wore my Alabama shirts for several sessions in order to drive the point home, too.

          Two days before I woke up in that hotel room, I felt something odd in my back when I pulled my computer bag out of the trunk of the car. Shrugged it off, you know, like we all do when there is work to be done. But my leg started hurting a bit and that night I was unable to sleep. I tried ice on the leg and on the back, took whatever over-the-counter pain stuff I had with me and tried to sleep but the discomfort did not get better.

          I had to skip my normal trackside activities the next day in order to conserve my steps. It hurt too much to walk. I even left my camera at the hotel because I couldn’t carry it. Finally, late in the afternoon I reached the point where I couldn’t deal with the pain and asked for directions to the nearest hospital. I hitched a ride to my car in a golf cart.

          Naturally, I’d driven my own car to the event because it was roughly an hour away from home. I mention this because the Mustang has a manual transmission. The left leg, the sore one, had to work the heavy clutch. Ow.

          The hospital ER operated very efficiently, I have to say. They were geared up to deal with fireworks accidents but I was whisked in very quickly because nobody in the area had blown their fingers off yet. I was x-rayed, diagnosed (close but not quite exactly right, as it turned out) and sent off with a mild pain killer. They couldn’t give me anything real good because I admitted that I had to drive myself back to the hotel. Got a prescription, which I filled the next morning before the drive home.

          Couldn’t see the doctor until Tuesday, by which time I was just about screaming. Got some more meds and a recommendation that I start physical therapy. But the doc’s office staff didn’t see the need to worry about PT and I finally, two days later, had to chew them fairly well in order to get them to call and set up an appointment. It had to be done that way in order to appease the insurance company.

          Ended up in the local ER before I ever got to the PT appointment because the pain just kept getting worse. Not sure how many people actually get relief at that ER. I didn’t. They gave me some morphine, which didn’t work. But I did get a real nice bill for the visit.

          We learned a lot about insurance during this whole thing.

          Between the two doctor visits and the second trip to the ER, I finally got meds that allowed me relief from the pain roughly half the day. I knew that all I was really doing was masking whatever the real problem was and that it would take therapy to undo whatever it was I’d done.

          Eventually, the therapy started working and I made it to the Labor Day race, where the media center was on the fourth floor of a building that had no elevator. Once, while slowly lumbering my way down the stairs, a wiseacre started singing the theme from the old TV show Petticoat Junction: “There’s Uncle Joe, he’s movin’ kinda slow at the Junction,” this guy intoned.

          All I could do was laugh and, believe me, laughing felt good.

          The PT folks got me better but it was my wonderful wife Amy who got me through this whole mess. I took a chunk out of her retirement because she had to work as a nurse, driver, cook and psychologist to get me through it all, especially those first few weeks. I guess all those years of teaching second graders came in handy, huh? So, a big thanks to my Sweetie.

          I also need to thank everyone who sent an email or called while I went through all this stuff. It was a difficult time for a while and the notes and calls helped. I’m not too sure I ever said thanks to all of you and that’s why I’ve written this dull blog.

          Thanks!

          And now, on to the next emergency.