I had this knee that for one reason or another would lock up, a trick knee they said. Personally, there was nothing tricky about it other than when the meniscus, that would be a floating piece, got in the joint, it refused to straighten out and I was left to scream obscenities, profanities and absurdities. A good push with the other foot usually would do the trick but when it happened while duck hunting alone from a canoe, a family concern arose. They did not want to see a newspaper headline stating, “Older man found floating in pond.” Included would be a minor heading, “He was doing what he loved the most but it seems he fell from the boat while screaming at his knee and not calling ducks”.
This knee, the tricky one which also had no cartilage, was initiating a lifestyle change. For example, being able to bust a move on the dance floor was seriously hampered. Someone mentioned they thought I was dancing until Dennis was seen stepping on my hand. The idea that I could no longer muster a helicopter dunk on the basketball court was also disconcerting, particularly when it was a 7 foot basket. It was just not a cool look having my knee pitch inward. At the same time hurting like I was a civil war veteran. It was also becoming historically uncomfortable when I told a youngster my limp was due to having taken a ball at Gettysburg, he believed me---which may be more of an age thing.
Due to my fondness for Captain Ahab, my first thought was to buy a whalebone peg leg. The idea of pacing around the quarterdeck screaming out commands to my crew ( just my wife) had appeal. “Lay aloft you bilge sucking slackers!” I could hear the clomp, clomp, clomp on the wooden deck and appreciate my heroic calls to bury the shaft deep while in pursuit of the great white whale. However, if recollection is of value, his whale-chomped stub was cut off by using a rusty knife after he had consumed a half quart of cheap whiskey. A dirty rag fresh from the scuppers was placed in his mouth as a way of relieving pain.
I opted for the shiny metal joint and requested a nice single malt scotch but by the time I muttered my request at the grinning anesthesiologist, it was night time. On wakening, I inquired of the possibility of putting a battery post, one on my knee and the other post on my metal hip joint to see if I could be used as a human battery. All l would have to do is drink an acid filled coke and then the juice would begin flowing, making me a sustainable source of electricity. For some reason I had no takers but the staff did say the drugs tended to make individuals delusional. I still believe it to be a good idea. I, and the person I had become, was asked to leave in one day possibly because of my dramatic story how I had recently picked up typhoid while in the jungle, or was it delirium tremens.
After a couple of weeks stinging pain and weak-kneed responses, I had to turn to other tactics to get sympathy. In a semi-concerned tone, Rick asked how I was doing. I said, hoping for a gentle confirming response, “Well, the knee hurts like no tomorrow, but the good side is my general demeanor and rugged good looks have really improved”. There was a pause, and then a slightly muted response, “If you think that is an improvement, you better get a new doctor----or sue him”.
Then the issue of the pain-relieving drugs came up and how they can cause various issues including but not limited to delusion---and most importantly constipation---and they might be related. There had been some loose talk about my bowel conflagerations, or whatever it is called. The word was on the street that many days had passed since I had had a meaningful relationship with the porcelain pony. From my point of view this was no joke because my eyes were starting to inappropriately bulge out and my lower GI was sounding like Mt. Vesuvius. I had been given every imaginable recommendation from EXlax, colon-blow, prune juice and Duramax which turned out to be diesel fuel and 2-4-D.
Eventually, life settled to sloth with a touch of truculence. Ann nursed me well, even with my cantankerous behavior. At one time the word was put out that if the day came that I had to wear Depends , a man-diaper, and she had to deal with it, I would be picked up and trucked off to the “facility”. Someone mentioned they had a special caulk gun that could be used from the other end but about then fear took hold and I was blessed with a religiously induced water closet experience.
While I am on the road to recovery, apparently no better looking, still partially in the grip of some stomach alien, not chemically burdened with a monkey on my back, I am no longer considering getting a whale bone peg but a gallon of good whiskey has real appeal. Maybe I am a cry-baby but I want to go fishing and not hear how Jim thinks the weather in California is delightfully sunny and warm---and perfect for going on a pleasant walk.
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