kneea culpa

Four weeks ago today I was drugged until I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was missing my right knee.

No. I wasn’t channeling a body part harvesting episode of Law & Order. And it wasn’t a dream, although I had been “sleeping.” My old, beat up, dare I say mangled knee was no longer inside my leg. In its place was a shiny new combination of titanium and plastic. And now, I’m the proud owner of an artificial knee, courtesy of Dr. Hodrick and the good folks at Southern Joint Replacement Institute.

I made the ultimate decision to have this done quickly, but I had been in the contemplation stage for years. I was running-not-running a race with Father Time, trying to hang onto my original equipment as long as possible before sending it to the used up joints version of Sanford and Son’s junkyard, or whatever body part afterlife you’d like to imagine.

Over the years, I’ve invested in just about every variety of brace and ice treatment (thank you, Amazon). And for a dozen years or so since my fifth and most recent surgery, I was holding my own. But in this, my fifty-fifth year on earth, Father Time started to pull ahead (he’s quicker than you’d think… sneaky old bastard), and I had to concede the race. It was time. So, six is my magic number. At least as far as knee surgeries are concerned.

The operation itself wasn’t so bad. And once I woke up, there were only three tasks between me and a ride home.

1. I had to be able to walk with a walker.

2. I had to be able to go up and down a small set of stairs on my own.

3. I had to be able to pee.

I was most nervous about the last one because I had failed to complete that task after my sci-fi shoulder reconstruction in 2017. A failure that resulted in a catheter, a blood-curdling scream I didn’t know I was capable of before that day, and a suddenly acrimonious relationship with the poor nurse who was just doing her job. Mercifully, this surgery wasn’t nearly as long or involved, and after a second Coke Zero, I was able to produce an acceptable amount of pee to secure my release.

Oh, and I left the hospital with presents! A very cool ice water machine, a pair of pulsing calf sleeves called Plasma Flow to keep the blood clots at bay (do yourself a favor and say “Plasma Flow” as if you were drunk, high, or both), more prescriptions than I’ve taken in my entire life, and—for some reason I can’t quite put my finger on—a souvenir umbrella. Like getting a free toaster when you open a new savings account... aaaannnnd, now I’m dating myself.

At first, I was swollen from hip to heel. And then the bruising set in. Purples, blues, and some yellowish tinge for good measure. I looked like I had been hit by a bus and felt like I was dragging around a few gallons of water on my right side. Gross, right? It’s okay, and normal. I’ve seen lots of people at physical therapy with similar bruises.

Physical therapy, as you might guess, has been my saving grace. There are days it kicks my ass. Days I can feel the progress. And every once in a while, a mini setback. But I keep at it. Three times every week officially, and hours every day between appointments. I use my ice water machine at the same rate my oldest used to watch Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory when they were a toddler. My knee feels amazing when that freezing water is running across it, but I have to confess, it looks like a second brain when I unhook that machine. Don’t believe me? Take a look.

There’s still a bunch of swelling, which is limiting my range of motion and pissing me off. And sleep comes in small doses. It’s like having a new baby and waiting for them to sleep through the night, except I’m playing the part of the baby and the parent. But I’m gonna get there. I’m walking a ton. In fact, I had a great walk this morning, except for the part when what I guessed to be an octogenarian passed me like I was standing still. Before too long I hope to be swinging a golf club again. Otherwise, what did I do this for?

I think about my old knee sometimes. I didn’t always take the best care of it, but it always tried to answer the bell. And much like our old Toyota Highlander, when it was time to say goodbye, my knee didn’t owe me a damned thing.

I know what you’re wondering. Will I come out of retirement and get back on the ice? Oh, wait. That’s actually just the voice inside my own head. New knee aside, as much as I enjoy strapping the skates on and playing with #18 and #10 every winter, once a year is all I can manage. My pesky, rewired shoulder just won’t hold up for anything more than that. So, it’ll be Red-Green around the holidays and—when I find myself in Lockport for Thanksgiving—our high school alumni game. And that’ll be that. Even with a shiny new knee. Hmm. That’s twice I’ve called my new knee shiny, but I have no idea what it looks like. I didn’t get to see it before they installed it. After all, I was drugged. Remember?

Last question... was the surgery worth it? I’m leaning yes, but ask me again in six months.

Cheers.