The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Day Having a Bad Knee Wasn't So Bad

Damn, that picture could be me.   Except for the ugly black socks, it's a mirror image of what my legs look like on a good day.   Or a bad day.   Actually, it's now hard to discern between the good and the bad days.  I am closer to knee replacement surgery more than I have ever been in my life.   I can't wait to see what my right leg looks like with a big, old Frankenstein-like stitch down the middle.

Regular readers here know all about the arthritis I have lived with for years, all stemming from a warm-up exercise I did on the first day of gym class in my senior year of high school.   You see, my gym teacher was also the football coach and I think he frequently got his groups mixed up.   One deep knee thrust and I was down.   The sound my knee made was heard by the whole class.  Like the NFL, I took a knee.  Literally.

I have written here of my parents' immediate non-reaction to my injury.   In their non-trusting-of-physicians world, there were no specialists to be sought out, even though I was badly in need of an orthopedist.  Nope, regardless of the gravity of the medical situation, my folks referred everything to our family doctor, Dr. Weisberg, whose office was several blocks away on White Plains Road in the north Bronx.   Dr. Weisberg's response to any medical situation was the same.

"Put on an Ace bandage and take plenty of Tylenol."

Seriously, if Dr. Weisberg had been in the emergency room of Parkland Hospital on November 22, 1963, he would have tried to give President Kennedy two Tylenol tablets.

So, I had what was likely a pretty serious leg injury that was virtually ignored. And, hence, I have lived with it all these years.   Now it's just oozing with arthritis.   Back then, an arthroscopic surgery might have cleaned it out.  Instead, it was just left to fester.

When I was a student at Fordham, I would feel it occasionally.   You could tell there was some fluid in there because I frequently could sense a sloshing sound around my knee.   Once in a while, it would get inflamed and swell up.   The event would be short-lived, but still annoying.

Except for one such episode which had some nice side benefits.   It was the summer before my senior year.   A friend of mine was arranging a dance party at a club on Long Island with a bunch of her roommates.   Sweet.   She had the girls.   We had the guys.   Match.  

I was particularly interested in this particular excursion because one of the girls was one I had a major crush on.  We were friends, but I didn't think she suspected just how goofy ga ga I was.   She did once grab and hold my hand while we were walking on campus.   It was a move timed perfectly just as we were passing by her current boyfriend's dorm.  I was being used completely as a tool, but I didn't care.

Well, she was included in the dance party guest list and I was ecstatic.   Except an hour before we drove out to Nassau County...ta da!   Hello, knee flare-up.

By the time we got to the club, I was as gimpy as gimpy could be.   Dance?   I could barely walk.   I was suddenly the wet blanket on all the festivities.

As we sat at a table, everybody tried to do the right thing and stay anchored.   I insisted that they all dance and have a good time.   I would be fine.   By myself.   
Except...

"You all go dance.   I'll stay with Len."

It was my crush.  

And everybody went up to dance.   And we sat alone at the table.   And now I was swelling with pride.  Let's just say it was a nice evening.   I wanted my knee to flare-up repeatedly now.

Indeed, it was probably the one time in my life where my rotten knee paid some dividends.  As for the crush, we lost touch for a while.   And then got reunited for an interesting Act Two.   At one point, I proposed a conclusive Act Three, which never materialized. 

The knee is still arthritic.   And when it's finally fixed, I may desire to finally go out dancing again.   But it won't be the same as that one evening.

Dinner last night:  BBQ tri-tip sandwich at Holy Cow.