So, next Thursday they will insert a small camera and a tiny knife (yes, I am quite sure that this is the correct medical terminology) into my knee and, hopefully, scrape away all of that nasty torn meniscus.
In the meantime, I am hobbling around the best I can.
I doubt many people look forward to surgery the way I am counting the days until this is over. Mostly, I look forward to the end of this pain.
Pain is a pervasive thing. I have nothing but sympathy for people who suffer from it chronically. It takes over your life. One minute you're feeling pretty happy and optimistic about, say, your new washing machine and the next - WHAM - you are reminded that you are nothing but a giant pain receptor.
"Ha," says pain, "you thought you could forget about me for a few minutes. No deal, mister. I intend to remind you of my existence as often as it takes."
I have now reached the point where I no longer need reminders. It is there.
I imagine my orthopedic surgeon not as a kindly young doctor but as a Knight of the Round Table, ready to do battle with the evil, immoral and uncivilized being who has taken up residence in my right knee. I hope for violence. I hope for annihilation. I hope for total victory over the interloper.
Sorry. Guess it's time for a Tramadol.
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