Sayōnara!

I wish things were other than what they are. Really, I do. Most people would agree with that. They would also agree that you can’t argue with an MRI. God knows, I tried — stubbornness is a family trait — but I didn’t win. The radiologist put it bluntly: “If you were younger, this might not be so bad. But as it is, I’d say your days are over.”

He meant my days in judo, with the clear implication that if I didn’t give up judo, my days on the planet might end sooner than expected. He wasn’t joking. I was in the ER because I’d landed on my head doing a forward roll at practice Friday night. If I wanted to make it to Saturday night, I had to give up judo.

Here’s the thing about forward rolls: you’re supposed to tuck your chin and roll off your shoulder so you hit the mat at an angle. If you don’t, you could injure nerves, muscles, bones — take your pick. My injury du jour was a torn carotid artery on the right side. The technical term is carotid dissection, and it’s exactly what it sounds like. It feels that way, too.

My neck took the brunt of my weight as I rolled forward, feet in the air. This happened at the beginning of practice. I spent the next ninety minutes doing the usual throws and getting thrown. At the end, I knew something was wrong. It took me another three days before I listened to my daughter and went to the ER. Daughters are good that way. She stayed with me through the entire hospital experience — from the moment someone uttered the dreaded words “emergency surgery” to my discharge from the hospital the next day.

They didn’t perform surgery. The tear wasn’t severe, although my primary care doctor used the word “catastrophic” to drive home how badly things could have gone. I got the message. Even though I wasn’t having a stroke or heart attack from blood clots, they put me on blood thinners and eventually released me. By then, I’d been seen by a parade of people in lab coats, from vascular surgeons to neurologists and social workers. After introducing themselves, every one of them began with, “So, judo, eh?” Then they’d draw little diagrams of the artery for me. I kept the collection.

I had two CT scans, one MRI, neurological tests where I had to touch the examiner’s finger and then the tip of my nose, a heart ultrasound (I asked if it was twins), physical therapy evaluations, a ton of blood work (O‑), and IVs galore. They poked, prodded, pricked, and pumped from every conceivable angle in inconceivable ways. All while I stood there in socks and a hospital gown with my derriere flapping in the breeze of the hospital corridor. “Gown” is doing more work here than it can reasonably handle.

The worst part was the MRI. It felt like being inserted into a giant, heated Life Saver candy for a half hour while they played a wood‑splitting, drum‑beating, metal‑crunching concert from hell. I don’t think the technician appreciated the remark. What can I say? It was 3:00 a.m. There was an opening. They rushed me in.

What do you expect when you strap me onto a conveyor belt and feed me into an oven? And then tell me not to move for a half hour.

Naturally, my nose started itching two minutes in.

Before leaving the next day, I wanted to go out on a high note. Feet in the air—the way I came in. I said, “Do you mean to tell me that after all this, you want me to take two aspirin and call you in the morning?” Blank stares. That’s when I realized few people in the Bay Area are familiar with Borscht Belt humor. Who knew?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my final ranking in judo after two years. I earned my Borscht Belt. I wonder if that tap class still has openings.

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Images: Getty Images. Want more? Click on Amazon above right for other publications or go to Robert Brancatelli. Visit other blog readers under “Who You Are.” Leave a comment by clicking on the Comment tab above. This post is dedicated to my daughter, Deanna Josephine Kendall.