XL

That really is Phish and I do really suck as a photog.

The plan was to mark my 40th birthday a day in advance with Phish at Dick's Sporting Goods Park. Further, the plan involved:

1. Destroying my hearing with loud rock 'n' roll music;

2. Engaging in physical activity bearing mere passing resemblance to what humans consider "dancing";

3. Ingesting no small quantity of recreational narcotics;

4. Making questionable decisions regarding free-spirited, tie-dyed hippie women.

Three out of four ain't bad.

***

I felt every bit of 40 a few weeks back with an immobile upper body and a potential new, sedentary reality involving constant pain setting in. Obviously, that wasn't the case but in those days before I went to the osteopath and the PT I feared the worst. So I guess my birthday present to myself (other than the Phish show and its resulting effects) was the appointment with the OD and subsequent referral to PT. Peace of mind is the gift that keeps giving, especially if it saves you from a life you don't want and allows you to keep doing what you love.

Otherwise, no. I don't notice any change from 39.

***

Most people get philosophical or indifferent about birthdays later on in life, as the burned-out, frosting-caked candles mount. I got an early start. School started on my birthday at least twice growing up, and I didn't care much for school, especially after I figured out around age 14 what I wanted to do in life.

Then I joined the Fourth Estate. Sept. 2 is nothing but another paper to get off the floor by deadline. One year I asked for the day off (a Thursday) months in advance only to be denied to accompany my boss to cover a college football game — while a similarly responsible co-worker got that night off. The Quad-City Times' parent company gives the birthday as a paid holiday, but doesn't give time-and-a-half for working it. And because my birthday falls during football/other fall sports, and because company policy required the day to be made up within a month of the actual day — and did I mention I was born during football season in the first place? — my birthday is a colossal pain in the ass.

Ironically, I come from a family that makes a big deal out of birthdays and holidays. That has its positives (cards and an occasional present) and negatives (lots of butt-hurt when such things go unacknowledged). Dec. 25 is no different than Sept. 2, which is no different than June 6 or Nov. 18 — I have a job to do. Not my fault people want their paper on Dec. 26, Sept. 3, June 7 or Nov. 19.

All the more reason to let it pass unacknowledged.

In the Shop

For the first time in 10 years, I saw a doctor. I went to the Orthopedic and Spine Center of the Rockies on the recommendation of a couple of active people and saw Dr. Anderson, an osteopathic physician, my first time seeing someone other than an M.D.

To catch you up, I've become a bit cynical about the medical profession. It seems most doctors are hell-bent on moving pharmaceuticals and dealing with the symptoms rather than the disease. As I evaluated my situation and the various courses of action, I decided I would not submit to a regimen of medication. O.D.s figure out what's wrong with the body and how to fix it rather than defaulting to medication like so many physicians.

Also, what will an M.D. tell an active person? "Stop the activity AND take two of these every 12 hours." Not acceptable. Years ago, my friend Kim told me her philosophy regarding medicine is thus: "I do stuff. Your job is to help me get back to doing stuff." Couldn't have said it better myself. I was told the aforementioned course is standard among physicians in Cheyenne, and, point blank, that I would have to drive to Colorado to find a medical professional on board with what I want to accomplish. So when I saw an osteopath working at a sports medicine clinic, I was on board.

After meeting with his assistant, I had some x-rays taken of my neck. They appeared on a  computer screen in the examination room, a massive technological step from the last time I saw a doctor. I had about 20 minutes to check them out and make some observations (I'm not a doctor myself, by the way). Based on the view from behind, I saw a very unsettling curvature in my cervical spine and I planned to ask the doc about that. The view from the side showed me nothing.

When the doc came in we chatted a bit about my problems, and then he checked mobility through my shoulders, arms, neck and spine. He noted some tightness at the base of the cervical spine (nothing new there), and then got into the x-rays. I made my observation, which he explained away by noting that the camera could have been off to the side somehow. Fair enough. He pointed at the side view, noting that my cervical spine was perfectly straight — it should be curved, but with the muscles in spasm to keep my head up, the spine sat rigid rather than a relaxed curve. Huh.

So he prescribed a couple bouts of physical therapy at Smart Sports (buggy and poorly edited website, but I had to do something for the lack of pics; consider yourself warned) in Cheyenne, and actually got after me a bit for my self-imposed exile from the land of the active. "You should've kept at it," he said. "You need to maintain a routine and keep those muscles engaged." Um, doc, I thought, let me tell you about the last time I ran. Reckon you'll understand why I sat out.

With the diagnosis of a compressed cervical vertebrae and resulting muscle spasms (hell, I coulda told you the latter), as well as the aforementioned bouts of PT, scheduled for the end of the week. I went home relieved beyond the telling, and actually went running the next — 17 minutes, 30 seconds plodding through my neighborhood. Not even my first marathon or any PR was as symbolic as the sweaty and breathy jog around my sketchy 'hood. I even went out the next day and the day after that.

Friday that week I rode my bike to PT. The therapist asked me a shitload of questions, which I suppose I answered well, did some mobility tests but sent me forth with no exercises to do, which I found a little puzzling. Like the doc, she ordered (!!!) me to get back to work. "I want you to come back next week," she said. "But in the meantime I want you to exercise as normal."

Well, who am I to ignore medical professionals?