Gimp, It's Not a Tumor!
About 2 months ago, maybe a bit longer, I was having trouble with my left knee. It was shirking its knee duties, i.e. not fucking bending. Reluctantly I went to visit the orthopedist. I don’t like going to the doctor unless I absolutely have to. There’s a part in the ‘info intake’ routine when the physician’s assistant or medicinal elf asks, “How long have you been feeling like this?” My answer usually embarrasses both of us. I’m always ashamed and (s)he’s horrified that I’d wait a fortnight before I acquiesced and sought professional assistance. What would happen to this girl in the event of a vivisection? How long would she stew in blood and guts before asking a professional to sew her torso back together?
The knee dude's diagnosis sucked ass. He said that the knee cap was moving around, and I would need physical therapy to strengthen it. But before he disclosed the dealio, my x-rays surprisingly excited his inner surgeon. He popped into the exam room grinning like a frat boy would at a double-jointed virgin . “You have a tumor!” he proudly proclaimed. “I know,” trying to bring the zen, “osteochondroma.” (It’s a bone spur that grew out of my knee cap, toward my hoo-ha. On the x-ray, it looks like cauliflower grew inside my leg.) “Oh,” he pulled back, dejectedly, “So you know. How long have you had this?” I go all matter-of-fact, “Since 8th grade, so like, 13, maybe 14.” “And what did they say?” He studied my face, waiting to examine the rest of my bone spur story. I felt like Elvis at his own autopsy. “Um, they said that it could be prohibitive and they’d like to remove it. So I asked them a bunch of questions, and since I hadn’t yet experienced any discomfort, I’d prefered not to operate unless I really had to. My Mom agreed.” And that was the end of our date, Chuck. He returned to Objective Doc.
When I thought about it later, I gave him a break. He is a bone cutter. He loves what he does, and that means that he wants to cut my bones. I worried that he'd come off as a chase you down the hallway Patrick Bateman kind of cut your bones guy. I figure ff I had a bone shaver, I'd want to use it, too. So when the good doctor gracefully dropped the bone tumor subject and moved on to my real complaint, I admired his enthusiasm.
I served my time in PT, 4 weeks, Tuesday and Thursday mornings, an hour each. Not to pat myself on the kneecap but I was an outstanding student. The rest of those ‘I got my hip replaced’ cry babies were jealous of my spryness, my subtle strength and natural athleticism. Meanwhile, they were creaking and in need of some WD-40, dropping weights and moaning in pain. I felt their envious energy but I decided to forgive them their trespasses. Retaliation was unnecessary. They were already fucked. What more could I do? O.K. I would impersonate the old ladies. “My mail comes through the door, and I have to bend down to pick it up.” “I forget which doctor I’m seeing Thursday. I got another one, too, on Monday. Is this the right brace?”
I graduated Magna Cum Self-Appointed PT. I stopped cold turkey and didn’t schedule any more sessions. Why wait for dismissal when I felt good as new? No more knee sleeve, no more locking. I emancipated myself. For the first time in 2 months I got to ride my bike, go dancin’ and act as if the knee was as good as new. I thought nothing of it…until last night.
In the middle of the night I got up from bed b/c the high maintenance knee was all fucked up again. It woke me out of my sleep, which, as many friends and family and Gypsies know, never happens. One time, during a tornado, my house was swept away a la Wizard of Oz, and I ended up on Jupiter still asleep with my head resting on Shirley MacLaine’s shoulder while she played Crazy Eights with E.T.
As I’m wincing and limping around my room, I noticed that it didn’t hurt in the same way as last time. This wasn’t my knee at all. It’s the God damn chondroma! The cauliflower, once harmless and benign, was shredding the myriad fibers around it! The gall! After 15 years? That little shit came out of a coma to destroy blood vessels, muscles, ligaments, joints and all the almost, well not really, ‘hard’ work I did in physical therapy.
Today I am limping like a pussy again. It's not in my nature to endure taking stairs one step at a time, using the better part of an hour to sit down, peeing with my left leg straightened as though I’m F.D.R. for chrissake! On top of that the Advil’s not working. (I am sorry I made fun of the cute old ladies! I am sooooo sorry. Make me whole again, please!!) If the seething pain persists, I’m going to have to go back to that Saw Bones and tell him that the osteochondroma turned to the Dark Side and is trying to kill me. Thankfully, if my usual heal thyself attitude holds out, that could be as early as November.
posted by Shannon E. Ennis at
Friday, August 19, 2005
The knee dude's diagnosis sucked ass. He said that the knee cap was moving around, and I would need physical therapy to strengthen it. But before he disclosed the dealio, my x-rays surprisingly excited his inner surgeon. He popped into the exam room grinning like a frat boy would at a double-jointed virgin . “You have a tumor!” he proudly proclaimed. “I know,” trying to bring the zen, “osteochondroma.” (It’s a bone spur that grew out of my knee cap, toward my hoo-ha. On the x-ray, it looks like cauliflower grew inside my leg.) “Oh,” he pulled back, dejectedly, “So you know. How long have you had this?” I go all matter-of-fact, “Since 8th grade, so like, 13, maybe 14.” “And what did they say?” He studied my face, waiting to examine the rest of my bone spur story. I felt like Elvis at his own autopsy. “Um, they said that it could be prohibitive and they’d like to remove it. So I asked them a bunch of questions, and since I hadn’t yet experienced any discomfort, I’d prefered not to operate unless I really had to. My Mom agreed.” And that was the end of our date, Chuck. He returned to Objective Doc.
When I thought about it later, I gave him a break. He is a bone cutter. He loves what he does, and that means that he wants to cut my bones. I worried that he'd come off as a chase you down the hallway Patrick Bateman kind of cut your bones guy. I figure ff I had a bone shaver, I'd want to use it, too. So when the good doctor gracefully dropped the bone tumor subject and moved on to my real complaint, I admired his enthusiasm.
I served my time in PT, 4 weeks, Tuesday and Thursday mornings, an hour each. Not to pat myself on the kneecap but I was an outstanding student. The rest of those ‘I got my hip replaced’ cry babies were jealous of my spryness, my subtle strength and natural athleticism. Meanwhile, they were creaking and in need of some WD-40, dropping weights and moaning in pain. I felt their envious energy but I decided to forgive them their trespasses. Retaliation was unnecessary. They were already fucked. What more could I do? O.K. I would impersonate the old ladies. “My mail comes through the door, and I have to bend down to pick it up.” “I forget which doctor I’m seeing Thursday. I got another one, too, on Monday. Is this the right brace?”
I graduated Magna Cum Self-Appointed PT. I stopped cold turkey and didn’t schedule any more sessions. Why wait for dismissal when I felt good as new? No more knee sleeve, no more locking. I emancipated myself. For the first time in 2 months I got to ride my bike, go dancin’ and act as if the knee was as good as new. I thought nothing of it…until last night.
In the middle of the night I got up from bed b/c the high maintenance knee was all fucked up again. It woke me out of my sleep, which, as many friends and family and Gypsies know, never happens. One time, during a tornado, my house was swept away a la Wizard of Oz, and I ended up on Jupiter still asleep with my head resting on Shirley MacLaine’s shoulder while she played Crazy Eights with E.T.
As I’m wincing and limping around my room, I noticed that it didn’t hurt in the same way as last time. This wasn’t my knee at all. It’s the God damn chondroma! The cauliflower, once harmless and benign, was shredding the myriad fibers around it! The gall! After 15 years? That little shit came out of a coma to destroy blood vessels, muscles, ligaments, joints and all the almost, well not really, ‘hard’ work I did in physical therapy.
Today I am limping like a pussy again. It's not in my nature to endure taking stairs one step at a time, using the better part of an hour to sit down, peeing with my left leg straightened as though I’m F.D.R. for chrissake! On top of that the Advil’s not working. (I am sorry I made fun of the cute old ladies! I am sooooo sorry. Make me whole again, please!!) If the seething pain persists, I’m going to have to go back to that Saw Bones and tell him that the osteochondroma turned to the Dark Side and is trying to kill me. Thankfully, if my usual heal thyself attitude holds out, that could be as early as November.
1 Comments:
Awww... that sucks! Really. But you know, cauliflower is like that. Sure it seems harmless, but that shit always comes back around later like a motherfucker. Especially when paired with broccoli. They're like crudite vigilantes. Cauliflower is Kato to Broccoli's Green Hornet. Not really the star, but much more of the ass-kicker. And then there's the whole race thing (valet schmalet! come on...). I feel for your knee. I do. Tell Chuck you want to go out on another date with Cutter. You never know... he could be more Oscar Goldman than Patrick Bateman. Bring Eddie Murphy's Greatest Hits just in case. You know the album.
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