Joe Jurney - Transmissions from Mebane

If you’re keeping score, a dislocated pinky will get you a $1,050 bill from ARMC. Ridiculous.

The injured pinky incident has led me to believe one thing: Exercise isn’t worth it. This is my second injury in three months.

I did something to my knee around Thanksgiving. Luckily, it was not serious enough to go to the doctor for, otherwise I’d probably be homeless right now.

I wish I could say I injured my knee in a heroic way or a valiant effort. I wish I could say that during the annual Thanksgiving touch-football game at my in-laws’ house (or the TTFGAMILH), I sacrificed my knee for a win. Oh well.

The game is an extravaganza. It’s played on a big field. Maybe too big for us smokers and former smokers. There’s cheerleaders (alright, beer watchers) and even a referee who usually shows up near halftime. The players usually consist of my wife’s 3,000 or so cousins, some uncles and aunts, family friends and one of the scariest broods in Danville.

A gang of Irish/Nordic brothers. Four sometimes five of them. A dirty little clan that works like a jackrolling team. One of them will rollblock you, then another swoops in to steal your wallet and gold fillings. They play touch football like it’s a Viking campaign on the British mainland.

One of them is an especially maladjusted lad who wears IRA shirts and slips in and out of Gaelic when he speaks. You line up at scrimmage across from him and all you see are those cold, unfeeling, Aryan blue eyes surrounded in pools of red. You don’t dare say “no” to him when he insists on being quarterback. Never mind that he’s thrown three interceptions in a row. Best to keep your head down and run long, straight patterns.

The only way to soothe these savages is to throw on an old Pogues record and roll a pony-keg of Guiness in their general direction. Hopefully in an hour or two, they’re weeping and longing for home back in Belfast. (Keep in mind, these guys are of Kentucky and Minnesota stock by way of Ohio.)

Anyway, I would like to say that one of those criminals took out my knee and that I stayed in the game and led the team to victory. No.

One of the brothers tipped the ball to another one that led to the winning score with no time left. Their celebration with one another turned into a fistfight. Alright, I made that part up.

The next day I was completely sore. I drove to work and as I was getting out of my car my knee popped. I have no idea what happened but I had a severe limp for a week or two.

This put a halt to my three-week-old daily walking regiment. I was walking 3 miles a day and I was enjoying it. Only recently have I been trying to get back into the routine. 

Now I have the injured finger which means no basketball for me for a few weeks. But thanks to the Tar Heels recent play, I am getting of plenty of throwing, pacing and cussing repetitions in.

It started out with quitting smoking on Monday which has gone well thanks to Nicotine patches.

On Tuesday, I went to my doctor, or nurse practitioner in reality, and was put on blood pressure medication.

Friday, I was playing basketball when the ball hit my fifth digit, OK, my pinky and caused it to snap like a twig. Let’s just say that finger was going in two different directions or I was permanently ready to attend a tea party. Instead of going straight to the hospital, I stopped by an urgent care facility in Burlington thinking that maybe I could avoid the ARMC emergency room.

No dice. The receptionist said the doctor could set my finger but I would have to make an extra trip to an orthopedic doctor. I told her that I would just go to ARMC. As I was leaving the urgent care place she said “That’s what you get for wearing a Carolina shirt!” and let out a maniacal laugh. She had Wolfpack fan written all across her. Sadistic hate. A Duke fan would have made some irrelevant, Rain-Man-esque statement concerning back-to-back national titles or Redick.

I dreaded going to ARMC. I have read many a tales through our “Letter to the Editor” section about the horrors, oh, the horrors of the emergency room there. I was prepared for an 8-hour stay. Where was my Thomas Pynchon book when I needed the most, I thought.

My visit didn’t start out well when I noticed my hospital bracelet said “Jurney, Jos” on it. Well, I thought, they’re just using the first three letters of my first name. No. The first nurse I saw called me Jos (rhymes with the Spanish word for 2) Jurney and then Jos (pronounced “Josh” without the “h”) Jurney. Apparently, the receptionist can’t handle multisyllabic names or my voice had dropped so much from the “Jos” and the “eph” when I told her my name.

Luckily, it didn’t get any worse as I was treated within an hour’s time. I figured business was slow because it was around lunchtime.

My finger was dislocated and not broken, thankfully. The physician’s assistant drove a big, loooong needle full of numbness into my pinky and then set it. Even though I couldn’t feel it being set I was still biting my hand at the thought of it. After the finger was strapped to my fourth digit, another nurse came in with some electronic papers for me to sign. As I signed, she said “I like your shirt. Keep wearing it.” Suddenly, the ARMC emergency room seemed wonderful.

My wife picked me up and I played my injury up enough to sucker her into stopping by Chick-Fil-A. So, a dislocated pinky gets me Chick-Fil-A, eh? A broken arm has got to be worth Allen & Son’s barbecue! Make a note.

On Saturday, Stepford Republican Sen. Dole stopped by the county to tour the immigration jail. Reading quotes from Roselee’s story, she didn’t have much to say except how “wonderful” things are there and how it was a “pleasure” to be there. I half-expected her to offer up some lemonade at the press conference and tell the reporters to go grab something out of the goodie jar.

On Sunday, Carolina squeaked by Florida State. Ty Lawson was injured after a FSU player tried to wrench Lawson’s upper body from his ankle. My new blood pressure medicine was put to the test as I nearly tried to reach through the TV screen to choke Quentin Thomas. He played a good game but made some outrageously stupid decisions near the end of regulation. Also, some football game was on or something.

So, to sum up:

Quitting smoking= good, high blood pressure=bad, dislocated finger=annoying, anti-Tar Heel receptionist=evil, pro-Tar Heel nurse=saintly, Chik-Fil-A=always good, Dole=Blanche DuBois Robot, Ty Lawson’s sprained ankle=terrifying.

I’ve had worse weeks.

I have quit smoking as of today, Jan. 28, 2008. I have not had a cigarette since about 1 a.m. Sunday. Instead of an image of the “cool” Camel Joe, I have included an image of “Chemo Joe.”

About five minutes ago, I applied my first of some 28 nictoine patches I will be affixing to dry, hairless spots over the next four weeks. Because I am such a lightweight smoker (less than 10 a day), I was able to skip the first six weeks of the plan and go straight to Phase 2.

So far, I am excited over this challenge to quit … Or that could be a strange manifestation of a craving. Drink plenty of water. But we’re in a drought! Do we have enough?

Reading the directions to the patch system was scary. Nicotine sickness? Nausea? Headaches? “Vivid dreams or other sleep disturbances?” Whoa. I can only imagine monstrous hallucinations like something out of the movie “Altered States.” The side effects MAKE a case for continued smoking.

The directions advise keeping you to keep your hands busy with a pencil or a paper clip. Right. I have  a feeling I’m going to end up with a bad habit of arts and crafts. Here comes that mother-in-law bungalow built entirely out of popsicle sticks! I’ll start carving wood figurines of characters from the TV show “In The Heat Of The Night” with my chainsaw.

So, if any ex-smokers out there have any advice or words of encouragement, I’ll just be over here in the corner chewing on my hand.