Yesterday, I had an appointment to see Dr. Frankenstein, the orthopedist who has gradually rebuilt my right knee. The knee has been achy since I subbed for a dance instructor friend last week.
See, I danced for many years. (Not that kind of dancing, you perverts.) I was trained in classical ballet. I accepted early on that I was not destined for greatness. Greatness requires a willingness to (a) endure self-inflicted torture and (b) limit personal beer consumption. Great ballerinas also do not skip out on rehearsals for UT football games or Bass Fishing Tournaments – so I’ve been told.
Unable to sacrifice beer and football for the sake of my art, I danced with smaller companies – and managed to break, snap, twist, damage, pull, dislocate, rip, and sprain various body parts and I have had more knee surgeries than I can possibly count.
The first surgery was somewhere in the 80’s, years before laparoscopic procedures were available. Of course, the unsightly scars make me seem cool to 7-year olds – especially when I lie and say I was injured (a) wrestling an alligator (b) skateboarding or (c) crowd surfing at a Justin Timberlake concert.
The last and approximately 9th surgery was in 1997. I met my husband while recuperating. I couldn’t run. So, he caught me. Although in hindsight, it is clear I should have knocked him unconscious with my crutch, I didn’t. We got together. I had children. (No, I stated that correctly. I had the children while he watched ESPN and nibbled on my ice chips.)
My dancing days are now limited to occasionally filling in for a dance instructor friend. This is good exercise since I have an aversion to jogging. Seriously. I don’t run – unless it involves an shoe sale, an angry mob or something with teeth and/or horns which seems to be gaining ground.
Anyway, after subbing last week, my knee hurt and was a bit swollen. I assumed a small piece of cartilage had fractured or maybe there was a problem with my faux tendons: this has happened before. So, I reported to Dr. Frankenstein.
He examined my knee and announced, “It’s arthritis.”
“Huh? Wha… I beg your pardon?”
“We talked about this. With the extent of your injuries, we knew arthritis was going to be an issue later.”
“I thought you meant later as in when I was older.”
He said nothing – the jerk.
“Shut up! I AM NOT OLD YET!” I snapped.
Very tactfully he said, “Well, you do have arthritis. There are medications to help with the inflammation and swelling, but I’m guessing it has flared up due to overuse. You always go overboard with things…. let’s try to manage it without a prescription first. If it continues to bother you, you can take ibuprofen. And why are you wearing those heels? Those are not helpful. Are you trying to mess up your feet. You’re going to mess up your feet.”
I traveled home, pissed off, aged, remembering why I had always disliked Frankenstein, wondering why I didn’t go to Paris last year when I had the chance because I was probably going to die soon… and considering cosmetic surgery for the wrinkles I would surely find upon closer inspection.
After all, you can’t fight the aging process, can you? What would happen next? High-blood pressure? Cholesterol? Would I have to eat Cheerios? I hate Cheerios.
Since I had arthritis: perhaps I should admit defeat and enter into this elderly period of my life with sense of acceptance. I could buy some Frankenstein approved orthopedic shoes. Then, I could get a cane, hook my purse over my arm and pinch the cheeks of other people’s children at Wal-Mart.
I could almost feel old age creep into the car and sit on top of me. It was heavy and depressing.
However, Frankenstein did warn me about the arthritis. He said it could be a problem as early as my late 20’s. And I’m still years away from a replacement knee. Given the extent of my injuries, it could have been much worse.
By the time I arrived at the front door, I had worked my way from doomed to blessed. After all, the arthritis wasn’t attributed to aging but lifestyle.
“Well, is it broken again?” My husband asked.
“No, it is arthritis.”
“Like Granny has!” Ms. Diva exclaimed.
Thank you so much, Diva.
“Yes Diva, like Granny has,” I said as she pulled a blanket over my lap and I felt my hair turn gray.
