Jackie Wells-Fauth
If anyone asks you in the next month or so, what I am up to, be so good as to tell them that I am having a baby. That is all they really need to know.
And of course, no I am obviously not having a baby. But it is a better story than what is actually happening and that is knee replacement. There, you see, the minute I say knee replacement, you immediately think of some horror story having to do with knee replacement! Or if you don’t, I have a few hundred that have been related to me every time I tell someone I am having a knee replaced.
So, until the operation is over and hopefully successful, I am just telling everyone that I am having a baby. No one has horror stories about that because most old women such as me don’t have babies. It’s a simple psychological trick so I don’t have to wonder, while listening to one more sad knee replacement story, whether I should stay with what I’ve got.
I assure you, however, that I have no desire to stay with what I’ve got. Ever since the doctor gave me the sad face a few years ago, “I’m afraid you’ll be facing knee replacement—on both knees,” I have known that this day was coming.
There were some false starts. The first stage I went through was, “Oh, well, I come from hardy stock—I can make do with the knees I have.” Then my knees began to formally protest any time I climbed up steps. Okay, I’m getting my knees replaced, and I’m starting with the right one; that’s the worst.
“Oh, my grandma had her knee replaced and they put it in backward. She never did walk right after that!” Okay, I can hold out a little longer.
Next, came shots. Now, those shots did help a little bit, but after a while the knees began to send up signals that the drugs were no longer doing the trick. By send up signals, I mean they would crack and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies everytime I bent down to pick something up. Okay, I’m getting my knees replaced, and I’m starting with the left one because it sounds more ominous.
“My great aunt had knee surgery, and they had to go back in twice and readjust things.” No, I don’t know what that means and what’s more, I don’t want to know! I’ll just hang in there and suffer a little.
The next phase was braces. Just wear those elastic bands on your knees and everything will be fine. Except the braces wore nasty welts on the back of my legs which caused parts of my knees that had never created issues to start hurting. That’s it—I’m having my knees replaced, and I’m definitely starting with the right one because it protests more when I sit down or stand up.
“I don’t know…when my sister Carol had her knee replaced, she landed in the hospital with heart problems, and her knee hadn’t even healed yet at the time of her funeral.” Okay, if you insist, I’ll stick with the knees a little longer and put off that funeral as long as I can.
Now we are at the “I can no longer pretend that my knees are going to cooperate for the duration of my old age.” I crawled into the surgeon’s office (crawled is metaphorical—I haven’t been able to crawl on these bumpy joints since my last child left home) and announced, “Okay, okay, I give up! The knees have sued for separate living accommodations, and I am ready for them to go! Take a knee, please!”
So, in a very short time, I will be getting my knee replaced and every time I say that I am having my knee replaced, someone cheers me up by sharing a knee story.
“My uncle had his knee replaced—he’s permanently in a wheelchair now.” I don’t care! I’m having my knee replaced—I mean, I’m having a baby; and I’m definitely going to start with the left one!
dropsinthewell 