I've only got one now. In my right knee. The meniscus that resided comfortably in my left knee is likely in some disposable bag of medical waste ready to be picked up by Beverly Hills Sanitation. The rest of my years will have to be left-meniscus-free. I hope people don't judge me by that when I try to join a country club.
Just how does one arrive at being one meniscus short? Well, regular readers will know that my hippity-hoppity journey began last December. On a windswept and rainy night in multi-pot-holed Manhattan, I was working very hard as I twisted and turned to prevent my umbrella from going inside out. Well, I saved the bumpershoot. The meniscus in my left knee? Not so much.
The minor twinge in my leg that night escalated into something major two days before Christmas when a simple stretch with my personal trainer ballooned my left knee to Cecil B. DeMille proportions. The damage was already done, so I probably could have aggravated it all by chewing a stick of gum. The fact that I had screwed up my left knee in an event to work with a trainer and physical therapists to strengthen my long-arthritic right knee has that kind of ironic twist you'd expect from O Henry.
Nevertheless, the first few weeks of 2012 found me in severe pain. I would be sitting quietly and suddenly feel as if I was being stabbed in the left knee joint by Brutus. The simple act of going to a movie theater was the equivalent of climbing Mount Everest. I needed a sherpa to go and get me my box of Raisinets.
I called my internist who prescribed some Celebrex short term. But, when that worked as well as the last stimulus plan, I headed back to Kerlan-Jobe, the orthopaedic consultants to the Dodgers, the Lakers, and me. One grope of the back of my knee joint and my doctor knew what he was dealing with.
"You obviously tore your meniscus."
Up to that moment, I didn't even know I had one.
All of his suspicions were confirmed with a MRI, which I believe stands for the words "Maybe Really Injured." My friend, the Bibster, allegedly tore his a while back. Back when, he bought a Toyota right before me and a VCR right before me. I guess we were still locked in that bizarre pattern of life---copying each other endlessly.
So, what does one do now with a torn meniscus, I asked dumbly.
"Well, we repair it if we can. Or we remove it."
Having just become aware that I had one, it was depressing to think that I would lose touch with it so quickly. Nevertheless, the Meniscus Farewell Tour aka arthroscopic surgery was scheduled for the end of March. In the meantime, I kept at a combination of work with my personal trainer Christina and physical therapists Susie and Justin. I mention their names because they have been so important to me. As a result, the level of pain dropped faster than the housing market in 2008. The week before my date with a pinhole camera, my pain level on a scale of 1 to 10 was at a miniscule 0.25. Except for going down stairs, I was walking fine. I suddenly realized that the process of getting it fixed would undo all the weeks of exercise and core strengthening.
D'oh.
At the same time, I couldn't back out now. Opening Day at Dodger Stadium is in several weeks. To get to my seats in Loge Aisle 120, I must descend from Row Z to Row L. Half the alphabet. With no railing or bannister.
God perish the thought. What time is my surgery, please?
Well, it was supposed to be 730AM on Tuesday, March 27 at a surgical center in Beverly Hills. In fact, they wanted me so badly that they called at 645AM and asked me to come in even earlier. Hmm. Why the special attention? Perhaps they are fans of this blog?
Well, I was able to get there at 720AM. As it turns out, they wanted to slot me in before this guy who was getting his two shoulders repaired. But, I missed the window of opportunity and was put into the kind of holding pattern one usually experiences at Newark Airport on a rainy day. With questions at every turn.
Er, I thought I answered all this stuff on other forms. Apparently, three times is not enough.
"Do you drink?"
"What do you take for your sinus headaches?"
"What brand of cigarette did your mother smoke during the early 60s?"
If any of these people really did read my blog, they'd know all this crap already. But, in the "Cover Your Ass" department, this surgical center was looking to use the tarpulin from the Citi Field infield.
I changed into my gown, little paper booties, and a hat that made me look like Mrs. Patmore from "Downton Abbey." The night cleaning crew may have left it behind. And then I was shuttled into the "pre-op" waiting room. It was filled with several easy chairs equipped with personal IV poles. It reminded me of one of those places where you go for chemotherapy. Okay, how come nobody asked about a family history of cancer?
There was one other guy already in queue for his appointed surgery. He may have been there since the Super Bowl, because he was really angry and insisted that the flat screen TV be tuned to ESPN Sportscenter. And it was that time of early morning where they run the same show over and over and over.
My personal "pre-op" nurse was adorable and very helpful. She apologized when she said that she needed to shave my left knee. I complimented her on her work and remarked that she obviously had experience doing the same with her own legs.
"Oh, I never shave my own legs."
Gee, thanks for sharing that. Please keep your scrubs on while I am here, thank you very much.
All the nurses that came in and out of the room had pieces of paper that signified your appointed time with the happy sleep juice. I was told that I was set now for 9AM. The guy next to me groaned. So was he. And his surgeon was my surgeon. Suddenly, the concept of multitasking scared me.
9AM turned out to be overly optimistic. When we were still sitting there at 945AM, I could only hope that this surgical center had forgotten to change their clocks three weeks ago.
The gurney showed up to take the other dude at 10AM. From the conversation, I discerned that he was having surgery by my doctor on not one but two meniscus. Or is that meniscii? Whatever the case, I did some simple clock math and figured that I wouldn't be seeing anything remotely sharp until lunchtime. And, oh, yeah, I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since 7PM the night before. Who knew that a torn meniscus could be a fatal disease?
My pre-op nurse must have noted my angst. Her offer was generous.
"You want to use my laptop for a while?"
All of a sudden, Facebook became a neat way for me to stop thinking about my impending surgery as well as Christmas which might be following shortly thereafter at this rate. I started to post updates for my day. Or non-updates in this case. The verbal banter with friends, especially old chums like Joanne and Andrew, made the time pass quickly. And eased every raw nerve in my body.
At 11AM, the "inter-op" staff arrived for me and I posted one last Facebook message.
"My ride is here. Talk to you all later."
If complications had set in during surgery, I suddenly worried that my last line on Earth was not funny enough.
I walked past several surgical suites and actually saw my former "pre-op" neighbor in mid-surgery. Um, that will be me in a few moments and his positioning on that table is hardly dignified.
The operating room I was destined for was about thirty degrees colder than David Letterman's studio. It would not have surprised me to see steaks hanging on a rack in the corner. I popped up on the table and spread my arms out to resemble a cross as I was directed. I remembered the very same image from an overhead camera when Sid Fairgate died on the table in the third season of "Knots Landing." Can I go home now?
Technicians scurried around me as I was prepped. They threw so many sheets and blankets on top of me that I felt like the bed with all the coats at your last Christmas party. The surgical assistant showed me the little camera that would soon zoom in for a close-up of my meniscus. I saw the television screen with the color bars that would ultimately feature my knee as the star of a 30-minute sitcom. Even my surgeon came in for a greeting. I asked him if he was too tired to deal with me after this busy morning. And, oh, by the way, the hair that was shaved off my knee at 730AM had already grown back.
It was time for the anesthesia guy, except the one who was scheduled apparently didn't want to do it.
What? Am I not good enough? You'd be here if it was Zsa Zsa Gabor lying on this table, even though there is nothing left on her to be removed. Hey, bub, right now, the biggest celebrity in this place is...well, me.
Eventually, they got somebody to come and knock me out. He introduced himself as George Glass and I started to laugh. That's the name of the imaginary boyfriend that Jan Brady concocted in the "Brady Bunch" movie. But, this George Glass was alive in front of me and more than happy to shut me up for a while.
I looked at the clock. It was 11:27AM.
When I woke up, I was in a completely different room. Post-op and it was 12:12PM.
45 minutes from both Broadway and consciousness. Just what could they do in that short time frame? Did they do anything? I thought about my dad and the complaints he used to make about taking your car to the dealer for the service.
"They drive the car in the back and, for all you know, they don't even touch your vehicle."
Hmmm. Was I one of Dad's old Buicks? I doubt it. I looked down at my left leg residing on the gurney. It was bandaged but it looked the worse for the wear.
To make sure I wasn't rendered a complete mess by the procedure, a "post-op" nurse offered me a Juicy Juice. Hmmm. Is this on the list of an approved Michelle Obama school lunch? I must have asked that question out loud, because the nurse laughed. Oh, good, they didn't take out my sense of humor.
I was pronounced fit to go home and an orderly came to dress me. Wait, this is Beverly Hills. Should I call him a valet? He unwrapped some crutches and I suddenly was going to become the opening credits to "Double Indemnity." Gee, I would think of Billy Wilder at a time like this.
The orderly/valet suggested that I try and put a little weight on the bandaged appendage. I did more than that. I went all the way. And nothing happened.
It's an amazing day when you can literally walk out on two legs an hour after arthroscopic surgery. Crutches, I don't need no stinkin' crutches. At home, I tooled around like I was prepping for the next marathon. Around 8PM, the anesthesia completely wore off.
Okay, okay, I give up. Pain, have your way with me.
It was a rough first night but that was only the one. By the next day, I was walking slowly. By the next day after that, I could shower and cover the small little puncture wounds with Band-Aids.
And, on the very next day, I went to an appointment with my physical therapist.
As it turns out, the doctor tells me that he ultimately did remove a very ripped-up meniscus. He cleaned out some loose bone fragments, but, all in all, he was surprised that my left knee was in much better shape than he originally thought.
That's because it's my right knee that has always been the problem. And now it can return to its place as the limb that causes Len the most grief.
And, to think that, three months ago, I didn't even know where my meniscus was. You learn something new every single day.
Dinner last night: Meat loaf sandwich at the Cheesecake Factory.
1 comment:
Ready for the stairs at Dodger Stadium, the hill up to Blue Plate, and the mother of them all, the Hollywood Bowl. Life is an uphill climb.
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