If it wasn't for bad luck, you wouldn't have any, said my grandmother once upon a time when I was too small to reach the kitchen sink so I stood on a step-stool to clean the apricots.
We just picked them, she and I. They had a small orchard in their back yard—grandparents. I lived with them several times as a child. Fruit trees as far as eye could see; apples, pears, oranges, avocados, plums, cherries and, my favorite: apricots. Grandpa had his favorite, too: grapes.
It's how he made the grape juice they only brought out on special occasion.
I ate them as fast as I could clean them—apricots. Rinse - split - chuck (seed) - eat. Rinse - split - chuck - eat. Rinse - split ¡POW! stung by a fuckin bee!
Lip SWELLED up.
Not enough to deter me but enough to notice. Stung for a minute as most bee stings do. Paused long enough to announce I got stung on the mouth by a bee, rinse / repeat.
Grandma rushed in the kitchen, grabbed my face with both hands in disbelief.
Looking back now, I guess the chances of a bee making its way from one of many trees in the orchard to a basket full of fresh picked fruit I carried all the way across the yard, through the garage, into the kitchen, up in to the kitchen sink for a shower and dry before ultimately stinging the front of my face are unlikely.
Fast forward to now:
19 years and some change is Not how long I waited to tattoo the whole inside of my leg purple and black and yellow like I got kicked by a horse. It's how long they made me wait for a total knee replacement. Opaque collage of pastel accented flesh sensitive enough to stay awake 60 something hours straight provided at no extra charge.
It's what's on the inside that matters.
They wouldn't do it back in '04—first time I blew up my knee. Hard to forget those things.
April, 2004, Easter Weekend. Glamis, California, Imperial sand dunes—largest sand box for big kid toys in USA. 300 square miles of sand dunes, many of which stand taller than the average hotel. Back before GPS was a common handheld device and no one knew what it stood for, you'd catch an occasional tale of someone or some people who ventured too far from camp never to return. Search and rescue didn't locate them until it was too late.
I was waved off. At the last.second. Had the go ahead all the way through third and fourth gear. Fifth, GO, inches before take off when every extremity they had flew through the air like beads at Mardi Gras urging me to stop.
To.O late.
Willys Jeep. A primer rust-color Willys full of people made their way to the landing.
Nailed it!
When I woke up, the heel of my left foot was against my chest.
ACL, both MCL's, meniscus, bones, this, that. Every factory setting I had remaining in that knee got sacrificed on that jeep.
Unethical, they said, installing a fake knee on me in '04. I was in my early 20's—bulletproof (1), active (2), healthy...
Three strikes according to medical ethics.
Come back in 20 years, they said.
Since the first complete overhaul, it's been rebuilt twice. "Reconstructive surgery." Received cadaver parts once, those didn't work, my body rejected them. Had a leg realignment once and have since worn hardware valued around the same price as a small automobile. Repair, yes. Replace, no. See you in a couple decades, they said. With each procedure I asked for a new one.
Denied.
It went out again back in December. I'm still a year and half shy of candidacy material. An opportunity to preach my case. Again. This time I coached myself, scripted a whole speech before hand, had it all figured out, I did. Ask nicely, I shall. Calmly describe the pain I'm in, I will, and explain how I can't walk downhill or down steps or carry anything backward or hold up a motorcycle. Squat, no. Maintain balance, sometimes. Ladder, absolutely not but be cool, I thought. You need these people, don't lose your cool.
So much for that.
My emotions got the best of me. I recited everything he was gonna say before he said it, none of my own material—totally off script!
I'm not obeise, I told him, I'm not a good candidate because I'm not overweight or in dire health or restricted to a wheelchair and I'm under 50. I've heard it all before. They're only good for 20 years, I said, and should I live to see 90, you'll have to cut the thing off and that's unethical.
I was over it. 48 and some months is close enough. I got excited. Whatev. Not angry, passionate. Nothing as practiced. Completely lost my cool.
Felt like I was on trial, not a medical patient. He motioned me to stop. "Okay! Okay! Okay!"
Calm down...
Motioning the palms of his hands defensively toward me silencing my testimony long enough to inform me he already reviewed my case. Himself, a team of colleagues and the chief of orthopedics unanimously decided before I got there. Prior to my theatrics, they'd already agreed to install a new one.
Gruesome, eh? Hence it didn't make the cover. Small-er, I thought, off to the side like that so it's less nauseating to look at. You're welcome. = } Did that back in January—knee replacement not the image alignment. I welcomed 2024 in recovery. Procedure was a few hours, rehab's about a half year.
If you're no stranger to D and A, you might be all "but didn't you JUST fuck your hand up?"
Good memory, you.
In the past seven months I've lost the use of my hand and now this. Versed ain't no joke. That's the stuff the anesthesiologist mainlines you in the operating room. I'm not a medical professional or anything but I don't think a pair of three hour versed comas in less than eight months is good for longevity.
Would be nice to incorporate my cane in this but unfortunately my hand has a mind of its own. I've been using a walker—48 feeling like 88. A couple things that seem like basic knowledge now that no one prepared me for is, when you're reliant on a walker for mobility, you won't have hands to carry anything. That and check the mail. Our driveway's a little longer than most and it's a six degree angle down to the mailbox.
Mhm.
Lots of ice. Got a convenient little ice machine that plugs into the wall and circulates ice water for swelling. Lots of that, lots of elevating, and a lot of staring out the window.
My grandma was a rocket scientist. Not really, they owned a liquor store. But even the future was no match for her.
