I’ll keep it brief. I limped around for a few weeks on a bad knee before one day it just quit me with a loud pop. Lots of drama, x-rays, nine days in a wheelchair, now a fancy rolling walker, MRI, knee specialist, more x-rays, knee specialist scratching head, that sort of thing. Maybe cracked bone, certainly bruised bone, maybe torn meniscus, osteoarthritis from old injuries, Doppler for blood clots, found none. Like that. Surgery on April 3rd.
April 3rd. The pop heard round the campus was five weeks ago. April 3rd is 2 1/2 weeks from now. The rolling walker, not nearly as sexy as the one above but almost, is getting old. The pain is getting old. I’m also getting old. Rapidly.
I’ve kept a sunny disposition thus far, but I’m flagging. Everyone has been helpful beyond words – all my classes moved in one building, folks helping with Em and The Perfect Grandson, rides to and from work, even concierge service in the rain since I can’t hold the umbrella and the walker simultaneously. Em has been my legs around the house and an angel.
I know there are people out there much, much, MUCH worse off than I am. This is temporary and I’ll get over it. But in the meantime, I can’t pick up The Perfect Grandson or babysit him while his mom’s in class. I can’t lift him out of his bed in the morning for our conspiratorial, dark-thirty goofing off. I miss it all something terrible.
I’ll probably wake up tomorrow morning with a new and grateful attitude. A little sleep does wonders. So do anti-inflammatory drugs. Eighteen more days. I can do this.