The rest of the story…
…I crutched through the rain and into the Ortho clinic. After seven days, six hours and a thimble-full of minutes of confinement to my recliner, I was so ready for relief that I hadn’t eaten anything for hours. You know, in the minuscule chance that that they might say “well, we would love to operate on that knee right now, but we can’t because YOU STOPPED AT THE SONIC!! HAHAHAHA!!! GET HENCE AND SUFFER SOME MORE UNTIL THE DATE OF THINE NEXT APPOINTMENT!
Although I saw the surgeon in the hall, I was there to see his assistant. So rather than throwing myself at his feet and buffing his shoes with my hair, I allowed myself to be ushered to my new apartment. There I was ordered to gird my loins with quite possible the most ridiculous-looking pair of paper bloomers ever to strut across the runway of Milan and then faced a barrage of paparazzo.
Actually, they were just x-ray machines, but a girl can dream, can’t she?
After multiple images of my stubby pegs were captured, the wait for the meeting with the wizard, the omniscient MRI machine. And it was quite the wait, but the cold, hard, plastic of the chair felt like the finest Egyptian cotton upholstery; at least I wasn’t sitting at home.
Then came crushing news: the PA had consulted with the surgeon, and the MRI had been canceled. To my utter dismay, I was to be injected and sent home, with a follow up date almost TWO MONTHS OUT. If I had had access to some rope and a rafter at the time, I probably wouldn’t be writing this today. As I had been freaking out about waiting for two weeks, you can imagine how I reacted to two months.
But as the shot was being prepared, I snuck a peek at the paperwork. The duration of the follow-up appointment was merely ten minutes. TEN MINUTES? What type of surgical procedure could be accomplished in ten minutes? Wait just a minute; maybe I was looking at this the wrong way. Instead of looking immediately for the worst case scenario, was it that the surgeon was implying that the blade wasn’t necessary? That he was that confident that this shot would be so effective that he didn’t even see the reason for an immediate follow up?
It’s all a matter of perspective, and perspective is all too often our reality.
Well, that’s exactly what it was. While I had no problem watching them fill a syringe so imposing that it had obviously been purchased from an equine supply house, I had no intention of watching them jab this cruise missle looking thingie into the side of my knee.
Then they left, and I laid there on the table for what seemed an eternity. No problem there on my part; again, I was just glad to not be at home. Maybe they were just giving the steroid time to “set up”, or some other fancy medical term.
The nurse finally stuck his head back through the door and inquired as to why that I was still laying there; well, because they hadn’t told me to leave.
As I had been cleared to go, I regretfully stuffed my massive paper underpants into the tiny trash can and crutched back out to my car. The rain had stopped, the sun was shining, and I had a hot date scheduled with a Sonic breakfast burrito.
So, here we are now, back at the Casa. Is the knee totally healed? No, but it’s sooooo much better that I have no doubt that it will continue to improve until this whole sorry episode will be like it happened to someone else. But I hope to remember it when the next “bad thing” shows up
on my horizon, with the realization that this too shall pass.
…and the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t necessarily always a train.