The Sunday Memory Drawer - When A Good Knee Goes Bad

Unfortunately, this is not a photo of my knee. This joint has already had a replacement part installed. I am not there.
Yet.
My time is coming, though.
Here's a Memory Drawer installment that has me remembering one week back. And then way back to my senior year in high school. The connection? A creaky right knee.
Last Sunday, I had another flare-up of rheumatoid arthritis, brought about by a lively week of walking in New York. I couldn't walk without a cane for two days. Now, four years ago, when this happened, I got a cortisone shot. Anybody had one? Don't. The pain of the injection was so excruciating that I passed out on the examining table. Since I still had an invoice to pay, the doctor was nice enough to revive me.
Upon my next "issue" two years later, I wanted to avoid the cortisone the way I try to avoid driving through Mount Vernon, New York these days. I discovered the wonders of acupuncture, which I have written about here. But, last week, I tried a different mix of treatment which included a few 18th Century Chinese needles along with some 21st Century ultrasound deep tissue massages. Within two days, I threw the Fred Astaire prop away and I was good to go.
Except I know it will happen again at some point. I am trying to buy a few years before the inevitable surgery. My fervent hope is that technological advances will allow joint replacement to be done on a lunch hour with a minimum of anesthesia. Doctors tell me this day is coming. If I can have done at Costco on a lunch hour, I would be most appreciative.
But, the whole ugly affair this week made me think back to the glory days. When my right knee was right as rain. And actually was the same age as the rest of my body. Nowadays, my doctor says I have the knee of an 80-year-old. Gee, I can recall when it was otherwise.
Flashback to the first gym class of my senior year in high school. I was actually participating that day. It was still way too early in the year to get a medical excuse so I could skip rope climbing and head off to the library for an hour of reading.
Yep, that day I was in my maroon gym shorts and out on the football field, trying to look graceful with some warm-up calisthenics. The teacher that year was a bit of an asshole, who fancied himself as a taskmaster. We were doing exercises way beyond the normal skill sets. No jumping jacks for this chump. We were doing the work of the Green Bay Packers. Next up? Deep knee thrusts.
I didn't get past the second one. A crack was heard throughout the class. Everybody turned to watch me fall over in pain.
And that was it for Len's right knee. A life snapping moment.
I could put little weight on it as I was helped off the field. Crap, now I had a legit reason for a medical excuse. For the first time, I didn't have to make something up. Frankly, it was less painful to lie. I was in agony.
My father was summoned to get me. Once home, the household surveyed my situation. Grandma tried to solve it all by suggesting I soak the knee in epsom salts and Witch Hazel, which she thought were the cures for everything. My parental units were a little bit more aggressive for a change. They realized I needed to see a real doctor. This is noteworthy because they rarely went to one themselves. Because, as most of that generation, my folks viewed all physicians as villains. They're only there to take your money.
At least, this time, they realized I needed to see one of those thieves.
Unfortunately, the doctor they brought me to was the worst possible choice. And he remained the worst possible choice even if the other selections were Dr. Jack Kevorkian or Dr. Jekyll.
They took me to the Bronx version of Marcus Welby, MD. One Dr. Herman Weisberg.
This dope had his office in the basement of an apartment building on White Plains Road several blocks away. At least, he was convenient. And, after judging all of Weisberg's credentials, his major accomplishment was that he was, well, convenient.
For some reason, my family loved this guy. I thought he was a complete idiot, who took the easy way out with every diagnosis. This is a man who would have looked at JFK's Dallas head wound and sprayed Bactine on it. No medical problem was too complicated for Dr. Weisberg that he wouldn't try to cure it with two Bayer aspirin.
I dreaded his first appearance as I sat with a swollen knee in his examining room.
"What now, Len?"
Oh, I'm sorry, Doctor. Am I pulling you away from something more important while I ask you to do your fucking job and look at my knee?
These days, a parent would take their immobile child to the best orthopaedist in town. Maybe even the state. Me? I got...
"This is a mild sprain. Put some ice on it and take some..."
Bayer Aspirin? It was so easy to finish all of Dr. Weisberg's sentences.
I did get the deluxe treatment because he did wrap my knee with a gauze bandage. This must have cost extra.
X-rays, Doctor?
"Why? It's not broken."
Indeed, as time would have it, a fracture would have been easier to fix. But, this early non-treatment of a pretty screwed-up joint was a life-changing mistake. My knee was never the same. For a while, it felt like there was some fluid there. I would say something to either my mom or dad. And always get the same response.
"But Dr. Weisberg said it was only a sprain..."
Hello? Do you see me crawling around in front of you?
In retrospect, once I had complete control over my own health care, I could have done more myself. I remember the first time it flared up in college. A bunch of us were headed out to a Long Island club for dancing. Because I could do nothing but sit at the table and drink, a certain crush of mine opted to keep me company for the evening. It was magic time. Okay, so there were some benefits to this fucked up knee thing.
But, by and large, I could have sought out more medical attention and procrastinated to the point of total avoidance. The once-a-decade flare-ups now come every two years or so. There is virtually no cartilege on one side of my knee. Bone on bone, which has become a nifty and creepy party trick. At some point, it will collapse altogether. And, hopefully, at that point, I can have the joint replacement procedure done with a "fix-your-knee" kit bought on the Home Shopping Network.
And so it goes.
About ten years ago, I read Dr. Weisberg's obituary in the Westchester newspaper. He had died of cancer at the age of 86.
And I wonder how much longer he might have lasted if he didn't try to treat that malignancy with some Bayer Aspirin and an Ace Bandage.
Dinner last night: BLT at Blue Plate.