Pain in the ass

Yesterday I got to experience the good part of the American health care system. You see, I've spent the past five days in what can best be described as FUCKING AGONY. By this, I mean the kind that has me stumbling around Target and Walgreen's buying a "Sitz bath" and an "inflatable ring cushion." As most of you already know, one of the occupational hazards of being a bike racer is the various bad things sitting on a bicycle seat for hours at a time can do to your anatomy. We laugh about it and harden the fuck up and all that shit, but last week I found myself with a new definition of "pain cave." And yes, that is a double entendre. Never mind that "pain cave" is the stupidest fucking expression to come out of Connecticut in a long time. I'm still trying to figure out how that state got in the union. But I digress...

So things aren't going so well for your hero. Luckily, as I started with, yesterday I spent the afternoon with medical professionals who not only knew what they were doing, but who actually gave a shit. I've spent a lot of time at a lot of hospitals, and NEBH is the best. But I'm still in fucking pain. Why? you ask. Since this is a bike blog, let's talk about recent "winners" of the tour.



At first I thought this issue was caused by something that rhymes with "Floyd." These things usually have a way of taking care of themselves, but after a few days of missed workouts and sleepless nights spent in excruciating pain on the sitz bath, I called my friendly PCP on Monday morning, and after a few minutes of voice mail hell, was told he did not have an available appointment until Friday. OK, where do I go for urgent care then, because I can't wait. "Can I take your number?" Sure. Within twenty minutes my doctor himself calls me up, and tells me I can come in at 4. When I got there the office was deserted, so I know he stayed late, and this is a Boston office we're talking about; this stuff doesn't happen with most of them.

Dr. V is a nice guy, but he's a PCP and doesn't do much heavy lifting. He looks at my problem for two seconds and figures it's a thrombose hemorrhoid. I'm not so sure, because it feels like a cyst to me, but he's the doctor, right. So we go back in the office and he makes some calls, but again, this is Boston, and most specialists have a long wait for appointments. We discuss the pain and all that, and I'm standing for effect, and he can tell I'm not here just to get the afternoon off work. He discusses the cons and risks of surgical removal, and I tell him I am game, if he can get someone, anyone, to lance (see, another Tour winner reference) this thing today, I'm there. OK, and he calls a general surgeon up at the NEBH Ambulatory Care Center, and the guy says come on down. Well, up is more like it. I make a beeline down Huntington and up the 25% grade Parker Hill Ave. Within minutes I'm johnnied, braceletted, and on the table. Everyone here is so pro.

I like surgeons. They are not drug pushers like many doctors, and they seem almost blue collar to me. No bullshit. Let's fix this. I like that, and I've had pretty good luck. I like this guy right away. Dr. B takes a look, sends me screaming with an internal exam, and says dude, that's not a thrombose hemorrhoid. I don't know what the fuck it is, but it aint' that. It's close, but it's on the outside. I tell him it feels like a cyst to me, and he says yeah, but he's never seen anything like it. The bad news is, he says it's not ready to be lanced... FUCK!!!! We discuss what we can do, but I already know we're talking more drugs and pain, and no fucking training for a few days.

So (yes, I know, this blog has way too many paragraphs that start with "so") here I sit on my inflatable ring cushion, loaded up on antibiotics and percocet, just trying to make it until tomorrow. Hopefully things will come to a head and we can "cut to the chase." Near as I can tell, this is like a bad-assed (pun intended) saddle sore that just happens to be on the opposite side of the crater from where you normally find them. I blame the double-stage at the Bob Beal, with racing in the dirty rain Saturday morning, followed by five hours of sitting around without a shower, then doing the TT. I guess we won't know for a few days. If he can't take care of it then, I might be in for a biopsy and another time tunnel video. I'll see if I can get a copy of it for the blog this time. That ought to really give the Boyz something else to forward all over California and out to Hawaii. Thanks for reading.