Today was interesting.
I met the man who fixes backs. A nice chap who helped me realise just how badly I've broken myself.
Allow me to explain. As mentioned before, this all seems to be sorting itself out. Sure, I walk a little oddly - but not so oddly that I can't dismiss it as the result of some astounding sporting achievement for the benefit of interested onlookers:
"Oh yes, I sprained my ankle while leaving the track after waving the chequered flag at the Monaco Grand Prix. Michael Schumacher was very concerned. No, really."
However, the good doctor pointed out that it was not, in fact, sorting itself out. Quite the opposite. You see, I don't really feel a lot of pain. In fact, I don't really feel a lot of anything much - my right leg is a bit of a useless appendage. Its deadness was illustrated when the chap did the thing with hammer; you know - the reflex test. Left leg - thunk - and up in the air went my foot. Right leg - thunk... thunk... THUNK... nothing. Not a sausage. DOA, it would seem.
My leg clearly took offence at this and found a means to exact revenge. The next test involved standing on tiptoe (no problem) and then walking across the room (big problem.) Down I went, taking out a bookcase on the way down as well as some very expensive looking ornaments.
With a disturbing gleam in his eye, the doctor booked me in for a MRI scan on Monday. "It'll probably need surgery" he announced with slightly more glee than I would have liked, "We'll just cut away the portion of the disk that is pressing on the nerve"
'We'? I doubt I'll be involved in anything but a passive way. Aside from the kicking and screaming when the anesthetist tries to put me under.
And I have to admit, the thought of someone wielding a scalpel around my spine fills me with a special sort of terror...
