Baby Steps

This is one of those confounded artificial knees and there will be one in my future.

But the good news is that, according to my new orthopaedist, it won't be mine for a little while longer.

Regular readers to these cyberpages already know that my right knee is a mess.  From the fateful day that I hurt it on the first gym class of my senior year in high school, the joint has not been jumpin'.  Back when, I should have seen a specialist but my non-doctor-trusting parents were more content to let an Ace bandage do the work that a skilled surgeon should have been attempting.  Coulda, shoulda, woulda.

Anyway, over the years, arthritis has taken up condo residence in my right knee and has already changed the wallpaper more than once.  The only time it will vacate the premises is on that day when the door hinge above is hammered into my bones and I will set off TSA scanners for eternity.

As each year passes, I fear getting even closer to those foreign parts in my body.  I've tried my best to stave off the inevitable.  Vitamin supplements.  Deep tissue massage.  Dr. Gu and his magic needles.  All of the above provides temporary relief.  But, still, this past summer, I always found myself developing a long term relationship with the nearest bannister at the Hollywood Bowl.  And it was equally unsettling when I discovered that I can no longer easily slide into the jeep on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland. 

It was time for another consult with somebody who had more than one degree on his wall.

Truth be told, I have seen a couple of orthopaedists here in Los Angeles and I didn't really want to propose marriage to any of them.  But, it was time to try again or so the stairs at Dodger Stadium told me.  And, with that ballpark in mind, I opted to try the best.  The Kerlan-Jobe orthopaedic specialists who handle most of the sports teams in SoCal, including the Dodgers. 

I knew of them first years ago when they treated Sandy Koufax in his final major league season.  They also are the ones who pioneered Tommy John Surgery, so I figured they'd be dying to also take a whack at Len Surgery.  After selecting one of their offices and doctors for my appointment, I was amazed to find the same doctor pictured in the Dodger Yearbook.  As long as I wasn't dealing with the New York Mets physicians, I figured I was in decent shape.  The Met docs might have looked at my conflicted right knee and diagnosed it as a swollen tonsil.

Complete and utter snob that I am, I decided to go to Kerlan-Jobe's Beverly Hills office.  And, as is usually the case with these "joints," the waiting area looks like the green room for Heaven.  I was easily the youngest one in the room.  But I wasn't exactly expecting to be lying alongside Dodger shortstop Rafael Furcal on the next gurney.   Or maybe I was.

When I was called behind the magic door, my first tryst would be with the world's oldest X-ray machine.  This might be the very apparatus that poked inside Sandy's elbow back in 1966.  The attendant even apologized for it.  With its arms and tentacles, it looked like a second cousin of Robby the Robot from "Forbidden Planet."  When it actually took the desired 8 x 10s of my right knee, I could feel a slight gush of air.  Not only was I younger than everybody in the waiting room, I had a few years up on the equipment as well.

Back in the examining room, I met first with my doctor's assistant.  A real but young doctor himself, he was obviously paying his dues before he graduated to Andre Ethier's hamstring.  When it came to my right knee, he literally and figuratively did all the heavy lifting.  Bend it this way, bend it that way.  In and out.  Up and down.  Does this hurt?  Does that hurt?  He concluded that my original high school injury should have been addressed back when.  I acknowledged that my parents were idiots.  Next?

About fifteen minutes later, Doogie Howser returned with the Big Kahuna who floated in like Jesus himself.  A lot of these orthopaedic specialists have God complexes and my guy was no different.  He was here to save the world and, more specifically, me.  I had an inclination to kneel down before him but, frankly, my bad knee doesn't give me that much range.  And that's what I was here for anyway.

I steeled myself for his words of wisdom.  I fully expected to hear...

"We can start an anesthetic drip immediately and have your knee open by 5PM."

Instead, he calmly and methodically laid out the steps necessary to defer that surgery for as long as possible.  First, a round of physical therapy to strengthen the muscle on the other side of my leg.  Then, in another visit or two, perhaps an injection of some lubricant that will add some small cushion to my cartilage-less right knee.  Oh, by the way, was I allergic to chicken feathers?  That apparently is one of the bases of that lubricant. 

Down the road, there might be some arthroscopic surgery to clean out some of the junk floating around my joint.  All of the above is designed to buy me as much time as possible so I can perhaps go another five years before the Home Depot parts are welded into my body.  I figure, by that time, knee replacement surgery will be so simple that I can have it done on my lunch hour down at Costco.

I'm starting on my first and newest regiment shortly.  I will be the problem of some unsuspecting physical therapist who will likely enjoy the days of the week that I am not scheduled.  But, if that is what it takes for me to maintain my life-long streak of never spending a single night in a hospital bed, I will grab the opportunity.

I walked out of Kerlan-Jobe in a happy frame of mind.  Because I was walking out at all.

Dinner last night:  Meat loaf and mashed potatoes.