Nobody wants to be on a first-name basis with her orthopedic surgeon.
But Will is cool. I met Will after one of my bike accidents – the first time I flipped over my handlebars, after a red-winged blackbird thought I was getting a little too close to his baby momma and pinged himself right off the front part of my helmet. If you’ve never been attacked by a red-winged blackbird, I can assure you: the little dudes do not hold back. At first, I didn’t realize what had hit me. I hit my brakes hard, forcing my bike to buck like a wild mustang, throwing myself from the seat and over the handlebars.
His work done, my feathered enemy spread his wings, showing off his impressive wingspan of five inches and his military epaulets of red and yellow, screamed at me one last time, and went back to perch on a light post at Flushing Meadows, leaving my body on the concrete as a warning for the next human who might pass.
My main concern was the six-inch deep scrape carved up my exterior forearm, studded with bits of gravel from the bike path like a vintage ring setting, and the blood that was dripping from it. It stung. It bled. I rode home with it, the mile and half down a main avenue in Queens from the park. Three people stopped their cars to ask if I was okay. “You are badass,” one young man told me, after I said I’d make it home and wrap it up.
The arm was the least of my problems. Mr. Bunny told me he’d kill me if I didn’t go to the doctor when, two weeks later, I was still dragging my left leg behind me like something out of a horror movie. Will, who specializes in hips, told me I’d managed to come down from my flip in such a way to land square on my left hip, causing bursitis, which is essentially damage to the little sacs that cushion the nerves. It usually happens to the old, and to elite athletes.
He asked me a question he would ask me many, many times. “How the hell did you do this?”
I told him about the red-winged blackbird attacking me. “Are you kidding me?”
No.
Six months of physical therapy and I could stand again without saying “motherfucker.”
I was back in Will’s office’s six months later, unable to use my right hand, because I probably was a wee bit too enthusiastic in throwing my jab-right hook combination. Will was kind enough to see me, because the hand specialist in his office was booked up and he – bless his heart – had studied hands in medical school.
“How the hell did you this?”
I told him.
“Are you kidding me?”
No.
Will flipped back through my medical records. He noted that between my two ankles, I’ve either broken or fractured them eleven times. I’ve broken all the fingers on one hand and knocked out my two front teeth figure skating. (That actually impressed him, as Will is from Canada and plays hockey.) I’ve had at least two concussions. I’m epileptic. “Why are you boxing?” He asked me. “Could you pick a rougher sport?”
Well, I don’t actually spar, I said.
Not yet, he said.
I came back a month later with a severely sprained right shoulder, again from boxing. Will says to just ask for him now, because I’m fascinating.
Then came the Big Fall. My first ambulance ride! Will almost cried when he saw my face, with my black eye, bruised cheekbone, and split lip. Twenty-one stitches in the right knee! Bursitis in the left hip now. He said I set a patient record for getting bursitis in both hips through separate accidents. “I can’t decide,” he said, “if you’re the unluckiest person in the city or the luckiest. Every time you come in, I’m expecting to tell you: you’re going to need major surgery to fix this one. But it’s always just bad enough to be a good story, and just good enough to be healed with physical therapy and rest.”
“Would you consider a stationary bike?” Will asked me.
That’s boring, I replied. Who wants to be stuck inside?
The badly bruised tailbone last summer made him lose his professional composure entirely. “Why the fuck were you figure skating in July?” he asked.
Will suggests now I never leave the house unless I am wrapped completely in bubble wrap and duct tape. He will write me a prescription for it. That way, it might be covered by insurance.
I like the scars. Some people get tattoos. I carve up my skin on concrete and rock and the limbs of fallen trees I’m foolhardy enough to mount when I’m exploring areas I probably shouldn’t be exploring. What happened here, someone will ask me. I have a story. I was trying something, I say, and I fell. That’s what happened here. I got back up. Then I tried something else. That’s why I have the scar here. I have some unmarked flesh on the left knee. I’m sure it won’t stay unmarked for long.
Will shall be waiting. And he’ll yell at me.
