How Do You Measure Mobility?

 

Or, as the title of the play goes..."The Loneliness of the Short Distance Walker."

The visual up above will be explained in a few paragraphs.

My closest of friends know that I have had limited mobility since...God knows...the first day of gym class in senior year of high school.   Something tore and the rip was audible.   Of course, back then, my parents didn't know what an orthopedist was...let alone how to spell it.   If you had any sort of ailment, you went to the family doctor whose course of treatment was an Ace bandage and some Tylenol.

Over the many decades, my right knee was serviceable but grew progressively worse.  But I learned to live with it via cortisone shots and the occasional arthroscopic surgery to "clean things up."   It was never fixed completely.  Doctors would simply scoop up whatever fragments were in there.

About thirteen years ago, I tore my left leg meniscus coming out of a Broadway theater.   So now my compromise was at least evened out.   I was limping on both sides.

All of this screwed up my left hip and ultimately I had to deal with a surgeon for the ultimate repair.   And that brings up to the last two years when I have been in perma-recovery from two knee replacements and one hip replacement.

So everything is fine now, right?  Um, not really.

After the hip was repaired, my first steps gave me an odd sensation.   Was one leg shorter than the other?

Yes, said my surgeon and he told it was a common by-product that would "solve itself over time."

When I mentioned that to Justin, my superb physical therapist, his response was telling.

"No, it won't."  

After waiting a month or two to see if my surgeon was joshing me, Justin did a measurement.   And, yes, indeedy, my longtime right knee problem was 7/8 of an inch shorter.  That's not a fraction you want to have.   That disparity is major.  It was a watershed moment in my life.

And led to several weeks of having lifts built into my sneakers and shoes.   Frankly, it's the first time I've been to see a shoe repair man in my life, except for my best bud Leo's uncle who had a shop on White Plains Road in the Bronx.  Luckily, I found a similar Italian guy in Westwood Village and he, too, did Jesus-like work.

For the first time in my life, I am walking straight.   Not fast, but straight.   And all it cost was ninety dollars per shoe.

For me...priceless.

Dinner last night:  Chili.