Let me catch you all up on the knee.
I hit the two-week mark and still had an elephant knee, so I went back to my regular doctor, who looked at, jimmied it around, and came to the astute conclusion that “yeah, you injured your knee.” So, she sent me in for an MRI and a consultation with an orthopedic surgeon, who I’ve nicknamed Dr. Salty.
The MRI was an adventure in itself. The radiologist looked like a young Glen Campbell. He wore a huge gold belt buckle and his hair was noticeably floofed and sprayed. I had zero confidence in his ability to provide quality medical care. Plus, he was kind of a jerk.
I met with Dr. Salty two days later and he barked at me about my old injury and questioned my description of the new injury before concluding that he couldn’t tell anything until he saw the MRI, which wasn’t ready yet in spite of Glen Campbell’s assurances that it would be. So, I waited two more days and got an ulcer.
When I finally talked to Dr. Salty he said, “Yeah, you injured your knee,” confirming the conclusions of two previous doctors and the countless non-doctors I showed my hideous knee to over the course of nearly three weeks. The MRI revealed swelling (duh!), irritation (double duh!), a debatable ACL (Salty says it looks fine; Glen Campbell’s not sure), and some “abby normal” cartilage. The recommendation? Give it three more weeks. If it’s not peaches and cream, and I’m still not able to do my normal exercise routine, Salty will cut ‘er open and poke around.
So, I’m waiting again. I’m walking a bit more normally (less Night of the Living Dead, more Frankenstein), but still nursing a painful knee. It stinks. Plus, I’m spiraling into a level of laziness not experienced in decades. I watched TV almost all day yesterday (it was an America’s Next Top Model marathon) and today isn’t so far looking any better. The goal is to be back in the gym this week. Salty said I should resume normal activities and that it’s impossible for me to injure my knee more, so I’m testing out that theory, mostly out of boredom, self-disgust, and anger about this entire situation. It’s me or the knee at this point, and I’m tired of treating it like a baby.
We’ll see how it goes.