Knee Surgery on Monday
A man develops unexpected bonds with his pain. I first observed this in my grandfather, when his arthritis was setting in and we were still busy building a house. He adopted the ache in his joints, accomodated it to some extent, and it soon became just another indicator that things were going according to plan. I like to imagine that he expected pain in his knees with the same mindless ambivalence with which I expect ice to be frozen.
My relationship with my knee was quite different, at first. I kept recalling the mechanics of twisting the leg off a roasted chicken, as my knee had made related sounds when I tore it. After the swelling went down, the joint loosened up, and was free to pop every once in a while, which (I'm not exaggerating) caused various spots to appear before my eyes, accompanied by a lightness of head which would normally have caused me to sit down, had I not been so utterly compelled to remain absolutely, perfectly still, for as long as it took the pain to drain away. Drain away it did, with the help of one Mr. Percocet, a short stocky fellow with a comb-over who appears to hang from the ceiling about a quarter hour after I ingest the pills.
After the intense rights of passage described above, I have now eased into the situation, carefully avoiding the positions that cause severe pain – a process which sometimes advances like a game of chess and sometimes of blackjack. My right side is instinctively protected from anything moving at subsonic speeds, and I pick up my crutches on the way out with the same absence of mind which I afford to taking my keys and wallet. Also, my head is frequented by thoughts like this one: I don't think I can walk to the mailbox right now, my shoulder's sore. And jokes like, I just walked all the way to Borders, and boy, are my arms tired…
There have been some unforseen side effects resulting from physical overcompensation on the part of my (not (right leg)). I can do five more dips on average that I could a week ago. I can't think of climbing the stairs on any fewer than three extremities (sometimes I use my forehead for balance). I can hop across the room with a cup of coffee without spilling a drop. And I can jump a clear foot up in the air, just off my left leg (to get to my warrior board). So, I ask you, why do I need another leg?
I don't. I'm keeping it as a spare.
Happy New Year, everyone.
A man develops unexpected bonds with his pain. I first observed this in my grandfather, when his arthritis was setting in and we were still busy building a house. He adopted the ache in his joints, accomodated it to some extent, and it soon became just another indicator that things were going according to plan. I like to imagine that he expected pain in his knees with the same mindless ambivalence with which I expect ice to be frozen.
My relationship with my knee was quite different, at first. I kept recalling the mechanics of twisting the leg off a roasted chicken, as my knee had made related sounds when I tore it. After the swelling went down, the joint loosened up, and was free to pop every once in a while, which (I'm not exaggerating) caused various spots to appear before my eyes, accompanied by a lightness of head which would normally have caused me to sit down, had I not been so utterly compelled to remain absolutely, perfectly still, for as long as it took the pain to drain away. Drain away it did, with the help of one Mr. Percocet, a short stocky fellow with a comb-over who appears to hang from the ceiling about a quarter hour after I ingest the pills.
After the intense rights of passage described above, I have now eased into the situation, carefully avoiding the positions that cause severe pain – a process which sometimes advances like a game of chess and sometimes of blackjack. My right side is instinctively protected from anything moving at subsonic speeds, and I pick up my crutches on the way out with the same absence of mind which I afford to taking my keys and wallet. Also, my head is frequented by thoughts like this one: I don't think I can walk to the mailbox right now, my shoulder's sore. And jokes like, I just walked all the way to Borders, and boy, are my arms tired…
There have been some unforseen side effects resulting from physical overcompensation on the part of my (not (right leg)). I can do five more dips on average that I could a week ago. I can't think of climbing the stairs on any fewer than three extremities (sometimes I use my forehead for balance). I can hop across the room with a cup of coffee without spilling a drop. And I can jump a clear foot up in the air, just off my left leg (to get to my warrior board). So, I ask you, why do I need another leg?
I don't. I'm keeping it as a spare.
Happy New Year, everyone.
brookelynne:
...and Happy New Year to you as well. I'm going to read back in your journal to see if you had mentioned how you have injured your knee.
j0bber:
Oh, I was climbing. I torqued it.