Nobody Reads This Page: “Medical Misfire”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

“Healing of the physical without the change in the mental and spiritual aspects brings little real help to the individual in the end. How true, because the mind and the body imprint and imitate each other. What we think, we become. What we become, we think. It’s an insidious process that can predispose us to illness or it can lead us to health.” – Edgar Cayce

 

I grew up in a family that was interested in the pursuit of healing, on all levels. With a great-grandfather who practiced medicine as a physician in both a civilian setting, and as a member of the United States Army. And a father who eagerly read the writings of clairvoyant Edgar Cayce, despite being a Christian pastor. One who adhered strictly to teachings contained in the Holy Scriptures, as his primary source of wisdom. With that background in effect, it is not difficult to explain why I have a particular respect for those in the profession of treating individuals who seek to be well, and maintain their good health.

 

Yet becoming disabled upset that paradigm in a sense. It caused me to question habits and methodologies that were long accepted in the community. As my own body declined in ability and excellence, I found myself relying on strategies that pitted the power of mind against failings of the flesh. This predisposition must have been sired, at least in part, by lessons learned from the Kentucky seer and his New Age movement. And indeed, Cayce was raised in the Disciples of Christ fellowship, a non-denominational group related to my pater’s chosen flock. Therefore, a sort of symbiosis was at work, between what I remembered from these forms of childhood inspiration, both human and divine.

 

But a recent experience challenged this faith, directly. I had sought to win a referral to someone who other residents of my rural neighborhood said was a doctor with amazing skills as an orthopedic surgeon. After years of struggling along with debilitated joints, and compromised mobility as an unhappy yield of this affliction, I guessed that such a person could help me resurrect myself, as a viable and energetic member of the human family.

 

Making my visit to his Chardon office required assistance from the staff, because it was part of the University Hospitals facility. I enlisted a parking valet to take my car at the front entrance, while another aide brought a wheelchair for transportation around the facility. Before my examination, I received multiple x-ray scans that documented the condition of my knees and hips. All of this required standing, and contorting my body to properly position it for the equipment. I was trembling and exhausted once this process had finished. But grateful to finally have reached this important milestone in my care.

 

Upon being taken to the doctor himself, I felt a flutter of emotion in my belly. It was a dramatic moment, one full of electricity and anticipation. Instead of reclining on a medical table, or sitting on one of the other furnishings that were provided, I remained in the wheelchair. It seemed appropriate as a sign that my ability to move around had been severely affected by whatever ailments he would diagnose.

 

When we met at last, he was more youthful than I expected. His handshake felt firm, and his voice carried a steady meter of confidence. But as he began to assess what his own observations, and the x-rays had revealed, I turned pale and numb. The plan for recovery he offered was one of half-measures, and hesitation.

 

“Mr. Ice, I note that you’ve recently had an episode with cellulitis. Your records indicate a visit to the emergency room in Geneva, and a stay of three days here at this hospital. While your leg appears to be healed now, I cannot consider any invasive procedure until that is completely confirmed. Also, your BMI number, the Body Mass Index, is too high for joint replacements. So, I have a few suggestions regarding how you might want to proceed. First, injections into your left knee and hip. Second, physical therapy. Third, taking Tylenol for pain, as needed...”

 

I turned woozy at this declaration, as it was impossible to hide my disbelief. While using a simple, over-the-counter medication for a headache might have been logical, I knew well that it would fail to address the serious nature of my infirmities. Cortisone shots were a gamble which seemed worth taking however, so I allowed him to administer one to my left knee, while still seated in the mobile chair. I could feel the foreign compound squeezing its way in between my bones, but got no immediate benefit. Still, I thanked him for providing care in this formal setting.

 

“Peace of mind is important to have. I am glad to know where I stand - metaphorically speaking of course!”

 

Getting back into my SUV was difficult, as the affected joint had stiffened from this new treatment. But I was able to drive home to my rural township, with a pause along the way for fuel. Sadly, in the days that followed, I realized that the shot had not bettered my condition. As before, I could feel the bend popping sideways, when upright. And a persistent ache still plagued my every move. Moreover, because of my brief stay as a patient in the hospital, and numerous trips thereafter to see physicians around the area, I was at my limit. Literally unable to do much more than sit on my front porch with a beverage, and wave to neighbors who passed by throughout the day.

 

No return visit had been scheduled with the orthopedist. I had been processed, poked, prodded, and set adrift on a sea of indecision

 

The conundrum I faced created a mood of befuddlement. How could I hope to survive, living alone, with such a lack of ability hampering my daily routine?

 

I used an online app to communicate with my primary physician, ahead of our next scheduled appointment, which was still a dozen weeks away. And I inquired about a rollator walker, which apparently could be obtained with a prescription, via Medicare. Something that I had foregone in the past, using two canes, but now decided would offer an extra measure of stability.

 

For years, I had heard friends, neighbors, and members of the family opine that I ought to ‘Get those joints done, and be glad!’ Yet now that a first step had been taken to accomplish that goal, I felt underwhelmed by the options that were offered. With notes of conflict resounding over what I faced, living in the minimalist setting of an isolated community by our county line.

 

The words of Edgar Cayce returned, while I pondered my plight over a cold brew.

 

“What we think we become. What we become, we think. It’s an insidious process that can predispose us to illness or it can lead us to health...”

 

I decided that no matter what remedies might come my way in the future, I would continue to rely on that power of positivity. A priceless gift from the Kentucky clairvoyant, and my father.