Organ Recital, Or My Grandmother's Knees

It seems I spoke too soon.

But let me back up.

Long ago I read that journalist Martha Gellhorn (and incidentally one of Ernest Hemingway's wives) back in the day of land lines refused to answer the phone once she got older since so many of the conversations were what she called "organ recitals."

I know how she felt--and I have for some time. On the whole, I have never been a big fan of organ recitals. And, to be honest, I didn't really think I had too much to add to the conversation. I was luckier than I thought I was.

These days, though, the organ recitals seems a necessary part of getting caught up with friends. Most days we get over them and move on (which may or may not have been the case with Gellhorn's callers). We exchange updates about body parts the way other people talk about their children or sports.

Cataract surgery was a happy prelude. I had something to add to the conversation: I can see! I can see!

And then things went south. My body betrayed me.

My  knees have popped as long as I can remember. Finally, after all the follow-up appointments to the ophthalmologist were over, I went to an orthopedist. (I asked my primary care physician to refer me to someone who perhaps had grey hair and who had more than 1% body fat. I did not think a jogger-thin sports medicine guru would be a good match for me.)

So I had an x-ray on Knee One, the one I fell on in Vietnam in October, and the orthopedist told me most people over forty have arthritis and suggested a cortisone shot--and if the shot was needed too often, then a knee replacement would be in order. I asked about glucosamine chondroitin and the answer was yes. Knee replacement surgery, like cataract surgery, has come a long way, but it is still surgery far more invasive than cataract surgery.  Surgery I would like to avoid.

The shot felt weird but it silenced the pops.

All of a sudden I was aware of my knees as I had not been before. Soooo a couple weeks later, after I realized I was favoring Knee One, I had Knee Two--still popping and popping compared to the silent cortisone knee--looked at.

This time there was no "I'm-okay-you're-okay" from the orthopedist. The diagnosis: "Your knee is shot."

A cortisone shot in that knee as well. I asked about water aerobics and the answer was yes.

No mention of physical therapy or footwear. I took those into my own hands (and my primary care physician did the referral for physical therapy). Knee Two still feels...sore. The muscles around it are very tight, I am told.

So I am going to the open pool hours until the next water aerobics class starts. I wear cushy Teva flipflops at home and took myself to the sneaker store and bought a pair of  very light Hoka (Cavu model) sneakers for their cushion. (They were originally made by and for ultramarathon runners.)  Getting into the space capsule cockpit of my Jetta's driver's seat has never been my favorite thing even in the VW dealer's lot before I bought it, but it is doable.

I ordered a book on safe exercises for arthritis, and I am taking the glucosamine every day; this is no longer a "I try to remember it" kind of activity. I put myself on the Healthy Shit Diet which I have managed to stay on, mostly, except for, say, birthday cake. No Girl Scout cookies this year. I refuse, however, to sacrifice strong Vietnamese coffee (50% decaf unless I really need to be supercharged that day) and sweetened condensed milk for breakfast and through the morning. Life is too short to sacrifice that.

And then.

A year ago we had three feet of snow over two days, and I did my share of shoveling. That was bad enough, but after a week of hip-deep snow, I fell as I was moving groceries from the car to the house, all of maybe six feet.

The good news is I did not hit my head.

The bad news is I fell on my back. And it hurt.

Heat, ice, Ben-Gay, and rest. So much ibuprofen that my ears rang.

Eventually the pain went away, as is the case with many back injuries.

That was  a year ago, and lately my back, either from that last shoveling of a foot and a half of snow the consistency of wet cement or in a perverse anniversary celebration, is again sore.

Creaky knees I can deal with. A bad back I can deal with. But both at the same time?

Back on the heating pad. Ibuprofen. Ice. Heating pad. Ben-Gay. Lidocaine.

I know how lucky I am even if I creak a bit.

In other words, I spoke too soon. The good luck of right now is not as lucky as I hoped it would be for a while.

And then the gods added insult to injury: about the time I went to the orthopedist, I misplaced my passport. It  had been in the modest pile of "I am not sure where to put it" on the top of the rarely-used microwave. But to try out the new InstaPot, I had to move the microwave off the counter in my small kitchen. Where I put my passport in that move I have no idea.

The passport was new last August and the photo actually looked like me. I just like having a passport even if I am not going anywhere right now.

I am just superstitious enough to believe that the minute I complete the paperwork for a lost passport and its replacement, my August passport will show up.

So let me get this straight: the gods gave me new eyes so I can see better, can see distance, and then....slowed down and restricted my movement.

I can only see so far if I can't go anywhere.

I was zapped by The Fates.

I have to face it: I am a woman of a certain age,  and I have my grandmother's knees. And when my legs are the stiffest right when I get out of bed in the morning and make a couple shuffly steps before I get really moving, I am doing exactly what she did decades ago when she was even younger than I.

I know I have little to have a pity party about. I know people who have had cancer, heart attacks, epilepsy, gallbladder and carpal tunnel surgery, and knee and  hip replacements--all of which are far worse than a bad knee and a touchy seasonal backache.

And to be brutal here, I know a lot of people (many of my vintage) who are no longer above ground.

Already.

How fortunate I am that at this point I have nothing more serious. (Touch wood.)

Grandma was tough. I can be, too.

For now I can go places, including to the physical therapy that I arranged and to the blessed watery weightlessness of the pool. For now I manage to do pretty much everything I need to do albeit a bit more slowly.  I don't mind lying on a heating pad and reading for a couple hours a day, and I think a long Easter ride on a heated car seat will do some good. If I look for my passport one more time and then decide to abandon hope, I can take my paperwork to the post office and apply for a new one (right before I find the old one). In an attempt to alleviate back pain, I stand and type this on my laptop which is on the kitchen counter. I religiously do the exercises that the physical therapist gave me for my knee. Insurance will pay for ten appointments with a small co-pay on my part.

It's a start.

And right now, until I know otherwise, I take heart in what a friend says from time to time, a question direct and pragmatic: "Can this be fixed?"

Let's hope so.