Semi-Crappy Knees and Packing and Such....

Although I didn't tell anyone ahead of time, I went to the knee doctor today. He's actually an orthopedic doctor but since all I ever discuss with him is knees, he's my knee doctor :-)

I'd seen him a couple of weeks ago about a baker's cyst, and we agreed it wouldn't kill me. Basically I was chicken and didn't want to have it drained. So I strongly suggested that he agree with me that it could wait.

But it really couldn't. When the back of your knee sticks out almost as far as the front, well, I don't want people to wonder if I'm coming or going, so I decided to suck it up and go for it.

I really wasn't looking forward to it. When I had a splitting headache this morning, I realized it was the stress of dreading it. I realized this because of the splitting headache from stress I had the last time I had to have it drained.

Crappy knees, crappy knees, crappy knees.

Thanks, I feel better.

So 'Poke-em Bill' came in, with two syringes for step one, and three for step two. It's just not good when you have five syringes sitting there and you're the only patient. I mean, I only have two knees for pity's sake.

Since it was the back of my knee, I rolled over on my stomach. I will tell you I showered and shaved my legs before going to this appointment, so as not to creep Bill out with kneecaps that feel like what elephants at the zoo's kneecaps look like. So I was confident my dignity was intact.

He said, 'big pinch' and it's just not good when they say 'big' before 'pinch'. Usually they at least lie and say 'little pinch', so you can figure if they say 'big pinch' it's really 'son-of-a-gun pinch'. So I laid there and clinched my fists as hard as I could to redirect my knee misery to my nails digging into my hands, having something else painful to concentrate on. It seemed to help. When he told me to roll over, I was happy to see three of the five syringes gone. Two filled, one emptied.

Getting shots in your knees is just creepy and it doesn't help that you have to sit there and look at it. You could turn your head, but I don't. The miserableness of it somehow fascinates me. I didn't love it, but I didn't die.

As soon as he was done, I realized I was somewhat worn out from dreading the whole thing. The nurses told me they'd heard the orders to grab all the syringes out in the hall and wondered 'who's the human pincushion?'

They then told me I should find the closest source of chocolate and consume it. I'm not real big on chocolate but I happened to pass Sonic on the way home, and a large strawberry ice cream float soothed whatever was left of my jitters.

So I'm set for packing - our daughter's house, and then ours, and unpacking our daughter's and ours, to two different locations 1200 miles apart.

And I have an appointment after all the moving is done, for him to survey the damage and tell me if he thinks we need any further jabbings.

I'm not loving this vicious cycle I seem to be stuck on, but it could be worse. I could be deathly afraid of needles. I don't know who came up with cortisone, but I'm thankful for them, and also for 'Poke-em Bill' who is pretty darned good at his job, which included engaging conversation while I laid there clinching my fists. And icing on the cake - you can tell which direction I'm going - straight into the future of retired life in the heart of Texas.