Would I do it again? Sure. I’ll share a few thoughts.
I now do about anything I please. I still have trouble
putting my sock on the foot attached to the humiliated knee. But, at my age, I
have trouble putting my clothes on, period. The knee is a little stiff in the
morning.
I’ll neither make nor allow any jokes about that.
Those who’ve had the full knee replacement, as I have, all
agree that the first three weeks suck. Most all daily functions of living are
impaired. Moving the impacted leg is more painful, I imagine, than bone spurs.
Thank goodness for physical therapists. Let me set the
record straight. I never called, or compared any of them to, Nazis. I simply
said that I would like to turn a group of them onto some of these new Nazis
that are following the president around. Talk about your “goose-stepping.”
Anyway, back to the knee. After Week Three, things improved.
I could get around with a walker and do my normal housework. Just kidding. The
only positive at first was being waited upon. I had a great deal of trouble
getting into a car until I realized it was much easier to do it exactly
opposite from the way my initial therapist had demanded. I found, as a general
rule, it was always easier to place the knee in position and move the rest of
the body to it. It was my knee, after all, and I suppose it shared my propensity
for self-centeredness and attention-getting.
The most disappointing thing was the pain of just sitting in
a chair and not moving. This is my favorite pastime, and over the years I have
perfected it into an art form. I had looked forward to adding a few
embellishments to some licks, like my “stare away mournfully” routine. And
speaking of “licks,” I had mentally assigned guitar-picking and banjo-paying prominent
roles in my recovery. Sadly, it hurt me to play as much is it hurts others to
hear me play. There was much rejoicing during the worst of my infirmity.
It all goes away. Now I climb ladders and cut tree branches.
I weed flower beds on my knees with the help of one of those little green
kneel-masters they advertise on TV. I can tote a 55-pound bag of dog food. I
can even run the extent of the house, hit the recliner, and assume my “stare
away mournfully” pose if I hear Brenda’s car enter the premises.
Only thing that still aggravates me is standing up from a
booth at a restaurant. Those are the darnedest things. I may start carrying a
cane for assistance in that one area. That might even help, along with my “service”
hat, in promoting “pity-pay” contributions from strangers. I doubt that, though,
still not much regard for my generation of veterans.
All in all, it was a successful ordeal with little fanfare
and complications. It wasn’t as simple as the time I walked into the base infirmary
at Camp Tien Sha for some “itch-cream” and a Second-Class Hospital Corpsman
with time on his hands noticed a cyst on my cheek. “Want me to get rid of that
for you?” Thirty minutes later I left, sans-cyst but with four stitches on my
cheek, ready for the mid-watch. There was no Purple Heart ensuing, but I think
about it when I hear of folks today going through weeks of preparation and
multiple “specialist pass-arounds,” ere having the same procedure followed by a
hospital stay, … about the same ordeal as I went through six months ago.
I don’t think medical corpsman do knee replacements, though.
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| And the sexy little scar on my cheek doesn't even show. |
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