Injury leads to much more than a pain in the ankle
Mychal Wilmes
Date Modified: 11/19/2009 10:40 AM
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"On a scale of one to 10, how bad would you say it hurts,'' the doctor asked.
The pain in the ankle and knee was caused by a misstep in a crosswalk, which resulted in X-rays and confirmation that nothing was broken. However, X-rays can't disclose a bruised spirit and a wounded soul. The injury was caused by insipid cosmic trickster spores; better identified as bad luck demons that delight in inflicting pain.
Kathy, who is an excellent caregiver, accompanied me to the clinic. The nurse immediately took my weight, which makes little sense because it wasn't hurting. Why weight is measured metrically is a mystery. It requires a translation into poundage, a service that Kathy seemed only to eager to provide.
"It says you weigh 230,'' she said.
Clinic scales are always off, perhaps ordered so by the nefarious medical establishment.
I explained that I hadn't taken my shoes off, had a wrench and pliers in my coat pocket and carried a mammoth wad of cash. She bought into none of that, and reminded me once again about dieting, good food and bad. It didn't get any better when the doctor took a blood pressure reading of 150 over 95. It was rising faster than the pasture's creek after a two inch gully-washer.
I had forgotten to take the pills that morning, but Kathy said it had more to do to salt addiction.
She also informed the doctor that a knee replacement would be needed soon and the doctor nodded in agreement. Then I put my uninjured foot down, insisting that I'll go home from the big dance with the old girl who brought me.
The pain -- from public humiliation and exposure -- had now reached 10. However, I thanked Kathy for being my Florence Nightingale.
At worst, I could milk this gruesome injury for all it was worth. Sam would handle all outside responsibilities. Since the leg must be elevated, Kathy would do dishes and other household chores leaving me to settle into the recliner for a personal pity party.
It didn't last long because the family quickly grew weary of what appeared to be routine requests. I can't recall who was the first "do-it yourself'' response, but it came less than 24 hours after the crosswalk incident.
Thank heavens for friends. Nick called to chat about his stalled harvest, the endless rain and the eggs, hashbrowns and bacon his wife cooked before morning chores. He ended the conversation with helpful, but not particularly optimistic, advice.
"You better take care of that knee and ankle or you're be so laid-up by the time your retire that you won't be able to enjoy it,'' he cautioned. "Plus, Sam won't be around to be your legs and eyes. You better take six months off, or you're body is going to fall apart.''
The mood darkened to match the rain-drenched sky.
"You seem depressed,'' Sam said.
"I feel like McLean Stevenson,'' I said.
Sam didn't know who McLean Stevenson was. He was the actor who decided to leave the M*A*S*H TV series after its third year to star in his own sitcom. You probably don't remember "Hello Larry'' because it lasted barely longer than a season and didn't win a bushel basket of Emmys like M*A*S*H did with Harry Morgan as Stevenson's replacement. A single misstep had ruined his career.
The aluminum crutches are much lighter and more comfortable than the old wood ones that hang on nails in the shed. Years before another concerned doctor had told my mother that I would be lucky to be walking by the time I turned 40 because my feet were so bad. I beat that prediction by more than a decade. I've set a goal -- I intend to take Kathy dancing come January. Nothing fancy, just stepping on her feet to old polkas that once were common at rural wedding dance halls long ago when shy dancers loosened body and spirit with conspicuous amounts of liquor.
If the body is indeed going, it might as well go out on the dance floor.