I would like to discuss my knee some more. Because I can. And because I wanted you all to know that I followed your advice.
Wednesday morning, Jensen, who had been eying my swollen knee, made a proclamation with a glint in his eye, “IT’S TOO BAD YOU CAN’T RUN ANYMORE MOMMY!” As if. Everyone around here knows that I only run when giving chase. And with that, he took off to torture his sisters in the far reaches of the house.
In reality, our house is quite small, and even while crippled, I can scurry from end to end in the equivalent of 8 giant steps.
The discomfort was really getting to me, and I know I was making life difficult for those people that I live with, so I called the doctor. Throwing myself on their mercy. As luck would have it, they could get me in that afternoon. Praise God from whom all blessings flow. I then had a reason to live. And there was much rejoicing from the peanut gallery.
I don’t mind going to the doctor’s office, really. I mean, on the bright side, I could go alone, sit in the waiting room alone, listen to my own music alone, and play myself in a game of phone Scrabble. Alone. And beat myself 3 times. What I won’t do for a few moments of solitude.
But then I had to suffer the humiliation of climbing aboard the community scale only to learn that ignorance is indeed bliss because SWEET MOTHER, THERE IT WAS. PROOF POSITIVE THAT I INHALED AN ENTIRE BOX OF THIN MINTS IN RECORD TIME LAST WEEK.
And to add insult to injury, my doctor’s office had neatly displayed boxes of Girl Scout Cookies right there on the counter, with a handmade sign “$3.50 a box.” There were no Thin Mints, or I would have been drowning my sorrows right there on the linoleum floor.
Have I mentioned that my doctor’s office used to be our old grocery store? And in fact, the exam room is RIGHT WHERE BEER AND WINE WAS? Poetic, I think.
Anyhoo, everyone wearing scrubs felt obligated to ask me what happened when they saw me hobble by. I got tired of “I have no idea” and moved on to “I fell over the dishwasher.” Which netted me more compassion. I’m not above playing the sympathy card.
My doctor examined my knee, and after poking and prodding (while standing a good distance away should I attempt to kick her) she determined that it most likely wasn’t arthritis. Or osteoporosis, because she said AND I QUOTE, “you’re too young for that.”
I embraced her. TAKE THAT AARP WITH YOUR NOT SO SUBTLE INVITATIONS AND CRAP.
She did throw out some possible diagnosis that I could not pronounce. One being a Meniscus Tear. But the bottom line was that I needed an x-ray to start. Then an MRI after that, if needed. She prescribed 600 mg. of Ibuprofen as an anti-inflammatory, and gave me some really cool anti-inflammatory patches to wear on my knee. Sort of like a giant nicotine patch. With soothing gel underneath.
I hobbled out to my car and drove over to the Diagnostic Clinic for the x-ray. I’ve never broken a bone before, so I’m not well versed in the protocol for x-rays. I was outfitted in a lovely iron apron, and placed on a cold steel table. Not unlike the ones used for autopsies. I could see the x-ray picture. Alarmed, I asked, “WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?” “Um, ma’am, that’s just your knee cap. It’s suppose to look like that.”
Relief flooded over me, because in the span of 3 seconds, I determined that I had a giant mass in my knee, which would require amputation.
Goodbye Olympic dreams.
After arriving back home, I sat ambulatory on the back porch, watching the children frolic. Cailey was bouncing a soccer ball, and since she inherited my sense of grace, it slipped out of her hand, flew up into the air, and landed right smack down on my knee. The bad one.
I doubled over, seeing stars. My children nearly learned a bright shiny new curse word. I composed myself and assured her that mommy was alright and would live. But that she really should rub my feet to take my mind off of the BLINDING PAIN.
The ibuprofen is my friend. I’ve already noticed a huge improvement in that I’m not complaining as much. And so now I await the results of the x-rays, while asking the children to fetch me the bonbons in between foot massages.
Thank you all for your gentle proddings of GET THEE TO A DOCTOR. I’ll be back to running amok very soon, I’m certain. In the meantime, I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth.