Splat! Part 5

When I stepped into the orthopedics clinic, it was sort of a big deal. The last time I’d been there, I’d arrived unglamorously in a wheelchair (“Vroom! Vroom!”), and now I was proudly walking up to the receptionist like a champ, albeit a bit stiffly and sorely. Still, I felt a little like I was back in college, waiting for a big exam to be handed back so I could see my grade. Would I pass my MRI? Or would I flunk out of Healing 101 and learn that my knee was a proverbial ticking timebomb?

After doing the requisite amount of people-watching in the waiting room, I was shuttled into a small examination room and immediately abandoned. As I amused myself by looking blankly at the wall, I kept imagining an automated voice saying, “Your expected wait time is anywhere from 1 to 8 billion minutes.” Eventually, I realized that the walls of the room were quite thin, and I could hear everything that was being said out in the hallway. Shifting my waiting strategy, I began to listen for any interesting tidbits that might pertain to me, perhaps even give me a hint as to if I was going to be receiving good or bad news:

Possible Bad News: “I’ll be there in a minute. I just gotta duck in here and tell this poor sucker we’re going to have to amputate.”

Possible Bad News: “Boy, I sure hope this guy has one heck of an insurance plan!”

Possible Good News: “I love my job! Not only do I get to tell this gentleman he’s going to be healthier than ever, I also get to provide him with the secret formula for hair regrowth!”

Eventually, my doctor came into the room. After some cursory introductions, he sat down at a computer and pulled up what he said were my MRI results. To a layperson such as myself, this appeared to be a 3-D model of something that vaguely resembled a cabbage, which could easily be rotated and viewed on the screen at just about any conceivable angle. Not that I had any proof that it was actually my knee, mind you. I mean, it’s not like your parts are labeled or anything. It could have just as easily been a 3-D representation of a koala’s hamstring and I’d have had no clue. (Assuming, of course, that koalas have hamstrings.)

“Now take a look here,” the doctor said, and I leaned in close to the screen and squinted knowledgably, much like I do at work when somebody is explaining something and I don’t have the foggiest idea as to what’s going on. “You see this here,” he said, pointing to a random spot on the koala hamstring.

“Yup,” I said confidently.

“You see how it’s white?”

“I sure do!” True to his word, the random spot on the screen was indeed white! Now we were getting somewhere!

“Yeah, that shouldn’t be that color at all. That’s where your kneecap bounced off.”

So, as it turns out, at some point during that fateful night I actually dislocated my knee! Luckily, the freewheeling party responsible for this jailbreak, my crazy, ol’ kneecap, had been smart enough to relocate itself back soon after seeing there was nothing fun for it to do in its new premises. Now, while a dislocation wasn’t ideal, I was happy to learn that nothing had been torn. Plus, the dislocation helped to explain a lot, such as why walking around hadn’t been much of an option for several days, and I began to feel better about all of the self-imposed drama I’d heaped on myself. Two sprains and a dislocation!! Now that was something to talk about:

Annoying Guy Trying to Show Off: “I had a pretty bad hamstring pull once. It hurt like heck, but I still managed to finish the game."

Me: “Ankle sprain, knee sprain, kneecap dislocation, which affected both my right and left legs! I couldn't even walk! Read ‘em and weep, buddy!”

Sure, it wouldn’t hold much water with the Torn ACL or Ruptured Achilles clubs, but there would still be occasions where it’d prove useful.

Anyway, after asking a few useless questions, just to make the doctor think I was somewhat intelligent, I was told that everything would hopefully heal on its own. Until then, I’d be provided with a knee brace to help and stabilize things. With that said, the doctor disappeared out into the mist, on his way to rotate cabbages with his next patient.

The brace I was given was the equivalent of getting Coke-bottle glasses for your vision, to the point where it easily could have been mistaken from some sort of medieval torture device. It was large, cumbersome, and had random straps sticking out all over the place. I’m pretty sure I visibly flinched when I saw it for the first time, and my mind quickly went into overdrive: “Put him in the knee brace,” I could hear some ancient king sneering. “NOOOOOOOO!!!!” the prisoner would yell. “Anything but the knee brace!”

But it worked. Once I managed to pull it on, fasten all 47 straps, and get used to my left leg now weighing 30 pounds more than my right, I realized it really did help to support my knee, and that I could now walk more confidently than before! Elated at this discovery, I power-strode out of the clinic, knowing it was just a matter of time before things would all heal up and everything would be back to normal. Sure, the brace would make it so I wouldn’t be wearing leggings anytime soon, but that was just something I’d have to live with.

And that, finally, might be the end of the story.

Splat! Part 4

As I walked into the hospital for my MRI, my stress levels were hitting new heights. I was going to be jammed into a machine that would invasively scan my knee and discover that it now had the same basic structural integrity as a bowl of chocolate pudding! Never mind that I was moving around pretty well and feeling better each and every day. My brain had no room for cold, hard facts such as that, especially when there was stressing out to do!

Once I was situated in the waiting room, I had to fill out a form that asked all kinds of scary metal-related questions, such as if I had any pins, rods, or screws floating around in my body from surgery, if I had any artificial joints, or even if I listened to heavy metal music on the radio. I quickly got the vibe that MRI machines and metal don’t mix, to the point where said machine might explode dramatically if I left even a single stray coin in my pants. This was pretty stressful and distracting, to the point where as I filled out the form, I couldn’t even remember if I had a pacemaker or not. (My answer: “Mayyyybbbeeeeee???”)

Eventually, after I’d signed my life away, I was called from the waiting room and made to deposit all my valuables into a locker. I assumed this was because it would then be much easier for them to wipe my identity from the face of the earth if the procedure were to go awry and the machine reduced me into a steaming pile of goo. I was then brought over to the MRI machine itself, which is basically a gigantic tube that the technician jams you into, laughing maniacally the entire time. Just kidding, they don’t laugh at all. Instead, they simply ask you to lie down, then pile a bunch of weights onto you, making sure there’s no chance of you ever escaping. When you’re fully immobile, they then suck you into the machine and quickly sprint behind a wall roughly 10 feet thick, for the purpose of protecting themselves from the mysterious rays the giant tube is about to bombard your body with.

Lucky for me, since they were scanning just my knee, I didn’t have to go all the way into the Tube of Horrors and deal with claustrophobia. Instead, I was only sucked in to about my waist. They had also given me headphones, so I could listen to music while the machine growled, grunted, and basically sounded as if somebody was running a load of rocks through a dryer. One of the questions on the form I had filled out was what kind of music I wanted to listen to, and I had confidently answered “country.” As I was strapped in, however, I realized that I may have made a terrible mistake. Maybe it would be a bunch of modern weenie-pop country, which I hate! Maybe I’d spend a half hour listening to Thomas Rhett and Sam Hunt, at which point turning into a steaming pile of goo might be a reasonable alternative.

As it turns out, the process went pretty well. The machine was definitely loud, basically drowning out the music from my headphones. Still, I did manage to pick out some Chris Stapleton and Darius Rucker, so it was by no means torture. (There was one Luke Bryan song that came on, and it was touch and go there for a while, but I managed to persevere.) As the machine grunted and groaned, I imagined the mysterious MRI rays shooting deep into my knee, to the point where I honestly could have sworn I felt it tingling and getting hot, which then made me picture a Hot Pocket being left too long in the microwave and exploding. (Sorry for the imagery, but that’s honestly what was on my mind!)

After about 25 minutes on clunking and banging, the machine finally went silent and I was unceremoniously spit out. The technician ambled casually out of his bunker and removed the hundreds of pounds of weights covering my body, leaving me free to go. I was disappointed to learn I wouldn’t be able to see any of the results that day, and instead would have to wait until my follow-up appointment at the orthopedics clinic in about a week, which would be more than enough time to raise my stress levels to even greater heights. But that’s another story.

Splat! Part 3

It was Thursday morning, and I awoke in my trusty-but-now-hated chair to the prospect of working from home for an entire day. Since this seemed like an awfully daunting task, I decided to put it off for a while and instead make coffee. Of course, this was much easier said than done. (Believe me, I first tried saying, “coffee, make thyself and then delivery thyself to me!” but it didn’t work.) Getting out of my chair, crutching over to the kitchen, and making a pot turned out to be an endeavor in itself, but I then realized I had to somehow carry my full cup back to my chair with both of my arms occupied by crutch duty.

My solution was less than elegant. I won’t go into any details, but I will say that it employed two stools as portable islands and took so much time that when I finally arrived at my chair, the coffee had grown cold. Sigh.

Luckily, working from home on my laptop turned out to be not nearly as bad as I thought, mainly because I was able to accomplish useful things, which was the exact opposite of life at home on crutches. Still, it was just my job, so when quitting time rolled around, I was ready to call it a day. I’d been sitting in my chair for basically nine straight hours, and it was time for a break in the monotony!! I happily closed my laptop with a satisfying 'click.' I could now do anything I wanted!! Of course, since I could still barely move around, “anything” basically meant sitting around in the same chair with my legs elevated for another six or so hours before it would be time to fall asleep in that very same chair!! Hooray!!! I mean, sigh.

I also worked from home on Friday, and as I logged off that afternoon, I swore to myself I’d make it into the office on Monday, even if I had to have my chair – with me strapped into it wearing a crash helmet – airlifted there. Luckily, I was seeing a bit of progress in terms of my mobility, as my crutching around was getting somewhat easier. My ultimate goal was to be walking by Monday, but I realized that might be overly-ambitious.

The first day of the weekend went well – I learned how to use the vacuum cleaner while on crutches – and by Sunday morning I discovered I could now move around with just a single crutch! This happily meant that carrying massive amounts of comfort food from my kitchen to my chair had just gotten exponentially easier. I celebrated by venturing out into the real world to restock at a grocery store. Predictably, I stressed out about looking foolish while hobbling around in public, not to mention falling over and having an entire display of canned goods topple down on top of me. Luckily, everything went well, and that night I was even able to sleep in my bed upstairs! (For the record, I did have to fight back the urge to light my chair on fire, as a sort of both a spiritual cleansing and a symbolic gesture of moving forward.)

I went into work on Monday with my single crutch, where I discovered that my helpful co-workers had been busy. Surrounding my desk was a living room chair, a walker – complete with the much-dreaded tennis balls – and a lamp. I could now recreate my Work From La-Z Boy experience of the previous week! Oh, and our team mascot – a plastic skeleton named Mr. Chill ‘n’ Bones – was also sitting in the living room chair with his feet up, complete with a neck brace and bandages on his left knee and right ankle. How thoughtful and caring! Showing that I was a good sport, I threw the walker across the room and said a few choice words, such as “I”, “hate”, “you”, and “all,” and then settled into my office chair to get to work. As the day progressed, however, I began to feel bad for being annoyed at the prank, and eventually I began to appreciate the thought and humor put into it, to the point of switching on the lamp and stopping in my attempts to swipe at people with my crutch as they walked by.

On Tuesday I again came into the office on one crutch, but I soon discovered I could hobble around without it, which was a major victory. (I’ve never been more proud of walking without assistance to the restroom.) On Wednesday I didn’t even bring the crutch in, and on Thursday it felt like things were finally getting back to normal. While still far from being healed, it felt like real progress was being made! I hadn’t realized how much I enjoyed going to work and interacting with my co-workers, and it really helped to lift my spirits and return a sense of normalcy to my life. Of course, it was on that same Thursday when it was announced that we would all be working from home indefinitely because of stupid COVID-19. Sigh.

Oh, and I also had my MRI scheduled for Friday, which was really beginning to stress me out. But that’s another story.

Splat! Part 2

The next morning I opened my eyes, hoping against hope that I’d be on the receiving end of a miracle. For example, perhaps I’d be lying in a comfy bed in some other part of the world, healthy and ready to climb some nearby mountain. (Dream big, right?) Unfortunately, I found myself sitting in the same chair in the same living room, with my left knee and right ankle fighting each other for my attention:

Left Knee: “I hurt way more than you do! He should pay more attention to me!”

Right Ankle: “Nuh-uh! I hurt way more than you!”

Left Knee: “Oh, yeah?! You’re stupid!”

Me: “Groan.”

Knowing I had to figure out the extent of my predicament, I carefully began to take stock of my injuries by slowly lifting and flexing each of my legs. A few seconds later – after a flurry of complicated mathematical calculations and extrapolations – I determined that I’d probably be sitting in that chair for about four years, give or take a calendar season or two.

While not surprised by this turn of events – stupid birthday! – I was still disappointed, mainly because moving around freely would no longer be an option for quite a while, and – like an idiot – I’d never followed up on one of my brilliant ideas, which had been to move my refrigerator right next to my living room chair, in case of an emergency just like this or an extreme attack of laziness. On the bright side, I had been smart enough to log into work the previous night and take a day of PTO, picking an Absence Reason of “Lower Portion of Body no Longer Functional.” So, at least I was covered there.

With my entire day free, I quickly realized that I could devote all of my time to sitting in my chair and stressing out over worst-case scenarios. Now, I’m sort of a master at stressing out over things, and it didn’t take me long to conjure up all sorts of convoluted end-games, most of which involved me wearing a full-length body cast up until the day I retired. Realizing this wasn’t healthy, I soon came to the conclusion that I should probably go and have a doctor check things out, just so I’d know which worst-case-scenario I was dealing with (“Your knee will literally fall off in about a day or so. Oh, and you have bad breath.”)

Happy to have something to do besides sitting in my stupid chair – which I was quickly beginning to hate – I made a bunch of phone calls and got myself scheduled at a nearby orthopedics clinic, then arranged a ride to and from. Pleased with my efforts, I leaned back and tried to relax. A moment later, however, I realized that I’d have to find a way to get out of my chair, which I couldn’t envision happening without the help of a crane and a well-placed hole in my roof. So, after about five seconds of blissful relaxation, I was firmly back on board the Stress Train.

Several ulcers and a few hours later, my ride showed up. Calling upon a well of inner strength I didn’t even know I had, I was able to get up and out my chair and make it out into the waiting car. Still, it wasn’t pretty. The entire process was a symphony of grunts, groans, hops, and shuffles, complete with the help of a stool that I used as a sort of makeshift walker. Like I said, it wasn’t pretty, and I shudder to think of it now.

Once I arrived at the clinic, however, it was free sailing, as I was able to upgrade from my makeshift walker to a full-blown wheelchair. This was easily the best part of my day. In fact, it was so fun that I may have made engine noises with my mouth as I was wheeled into the building: “Vroom, vroom!” After getting myself checked in, I passed the time by trying to master the chair’s controls, all while trying not to accidentally run over anybody passing within several feet of me. This little game managed to amuse me until it was time to be seen by the on-call doctor, who broke the ice by saying, “So, you’re a mess, huh?” Telling myself that he was only stating a fact, I fought back the urge to reply, “Well, you don’t look so hot yourself, buddy!”

After some poking and prodding, I was sent to get a few X-rays, despite the fact that I was sure I hadn’t broken anything. Still, it wasn’t like I was going to be able to make a quick getaway or anything, and so I relented. Upon being wheeled into the X-ray room (“Vroom, vroom!!”), a group of technicians swarmed over me. Eventually, one of them said – and I’m paraphrasing here a bit – “So, you have a bad left knee and a bad right ankle, huh? And you can’t walk or bear any weight at all? Well, stand over here for a prolonged amount of time, so we can run off into another room and take some pictures at our leisure.”

Luckily, getting out of the wheelchair for the X-rays turned out to be much easier than getting out of my chair at home, since the X-ray room is build for people who can’t walk. There are handles and railings and poles everywhere that can be used to haul yourself up and move yourself around on, and I soon felt like a cross between a model at a photoshoot and a gymnast on the parallel bars. (“Now turn this way and stick out your ankle! Good! Now look back over your shoulder! Beautiful! Now spin this way and show me your knee! Perfect! Now get up and stop crying!”)

In the end, the official diagnosis was a sprained ankle and a sprained MCL, which was seriously welcome news, as avoiding tears and ruptures had been my best-case scenario. I was issued crutches and a walking boot and sent on my merry way, with orders to get an MRI on my knee to verify that no additional damage had been missed. (“The MRI reveals that your knee has fallen off, and also that you have bad breath.”) I was then to come back for a follow-up appointment.

After being driven home, I used my new crutches to grunt, shuffle, hop, and groan my way back into the house, at which point I collapsed into my chair, vowing to never move again, even if I had to have Dominos deliver right into my lap. Armed with some newly purchased supplies and ice packs, I was soon left alone to fend for myself. Looking at the clock, I saw that it was only mid-afternoon, which meant I had an awful lot of time to kill before I got to go to bed. Luckily, I had books to read, an iPad to rot my brains, and a ceiling to stare up at blankly for endless hours on end. Plus, tomorrow would be less boring, as I’d decided I was ready to rejoin the working force and WFL (Work From La-Z-Boy). That, however, is another story.

Splat! Part 1

I recently celebrated a rather momentous-but-troubling birthday, and – in the spirit of meeting all of life’s challenges head on – I decided that my best option was to simply ignore that it had happened in the first place. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Well, as it turns out, just because it’s out of mind doesn’t necessarily mean your body still isn’t paying attention, especially when it comes to situations of a chronological nature. Let me explain. Several weeks later I was playing wallyball, which – for those unaware – is basically a game of volleyball that takes place in a racquetball court. This is one of my favorite sports, mainly because it’s very easy for players to lose their bearings while trying to track the ball and run full speed into a wall. Now, while I realize that it’s absurdly childish to be amused by this, I honestly don’t care. I mean, it’s hilarious!! Plus, it’s not like all of my juvenile behavior was building up a bunch of bad karma or anything!

Or was it?

It had been a fun night, and we were playing what would probably be our last game of the evening. However, instead of winding down I found myself getting more and more intense, probably in an attempt to prove that I’d never really celebrated that momentous-but-troubling birthday. Suddenly, the ball was hanging up near the net, and I jumped like I had a million times before, trying to make a play. This was when my body – which has always had a terrible sense of timing – chose that very moment to give up on performing anything of an athletic nature ever again, and I suddenly came crashing down to the ground for absolutely no reason at all.

It sort of looked like this

Now, I’m normally pretty good at falling down – probably due to a lifetime’s worth of practice – but this time it was different, as I somehow managed to sequentially land weirdly on both of my legs. (My theory is that I was too busy flailing about wildly and/or screeching like a child to devote enough brain power to sticking the landing.) About a second later I found myself sitting on the ground, feeling warning signals emanating from both my left knee and right ankle. Immediately I knew my male pride was on the line. I couldn’t be injured! And, if I somehow was, I was going to need to walk it off, not to mention make some sort of dry, humorous comment about needing to just “tape it up.” So, calling upon every ounce of stubbornness and courage I had in my body, I made a Herculean effort and heroically managed to move myself about an inch.

Uh-oh.

By this time people were gathering around, wondering why I’d decided to fall over for no good reason at all. I brushed off their concern, saying it was no big deal, but I think I lost a lot of credibility when I then tried to scoot over to the door on my butt. Thankfully, after a few minutes of rest I was able to stand up and walk off under my own power, which led to a thunderous round of applause from the crowd that exists in my head for just such an occasion. (Looking back, I wish I’d have given a thumbs up as I stepped out into the hallway.)

Calling upon the power of deductive reasoning, I guessed that my right ankle was sprained, mainly because it no longer resembled a right ankle, and I assumed the same was true with my left knee. While not a great turn of events, it seemed manageable, as I was still moving around with relative ease. In fact, I was able to get cleaned up, walk out to my car, and drive home without much trouble, all while being able to make a few dry, humorous comments. (“It’s no big deal. I was getting sick of my feet pointing in the same direction, anyway.”) However, by the time I’d parked my car in the garage, my lower-body motor skills had begun to erode dramatically, to the point where going up the stairs to my bedroom seemed on par with climbing Mount Everest. So, I decided to sleep in the chair in the living room (chair nap!), all while cursing my momentous-but-troubling birthday. Closing my eyes, I hoped that everything would miraculously turn out better in the morning, but, unfortunately, I was going to be sorely (har!) disappointed. That, however, is a story for another day…

The Facial Hair Blues

Recently, I’ve found myself in a predicament where I scare myself every time I look in the mirror. Granted, there comes a time in everybody’s life where examining their reflection is just a bad idea in general – and I certainly reached that point years ago – but surprisingly, my current problem is unrelated to the ravages of age.

It all started about five or six years ago, when I suddenly decided that my head was without a doubt the most boring thing in the entire world, and in dire need of some additional decoration. At that point I was totally clean-shaven, including my head, since my scalp was permanently on strike from growing anything that could be considered a meaningful amount of hair. This left only my nose and glasses as potential points of interest to casual viewers, but still, that was really pushing it. To put it bluntly, my head consisted of acres and acres of boring white skin, punctuated on occasion by something equally as dreary, such as a dull green eye or a slightly misshapen ear.

As a result, I decided to grow a little facial hair, even though I had previously sworn off doing so, since it seems like that’s what all bald guys did in order to make up for their follicle-based deficiencies elsewhere. However, I justified it to myself by saying that since I spent so much time shaving my head, growing facial hair would give me some of that time back, as it would reduce the amount of upkeep needed around my mouth and chin. Genius, right?

Happily enough, Operation Facial Hair turned out be a rather rousing success, to the point where I was perfectly content with it for many years – and by that I mean up until last December. Then, one day, I suddenly decided I didn’t like it anymore. I can’t say why this was. I just looked in the mirror, frowned, and said, “Boy, that's gotta go,” and so, not long after, I was back to vaguely resembling a giant thumb.

However, as it turns out, seeing yourself without facial hair after many years of sporting it can be a very scary thing, as it seems like you’ve suddenly turned into a totally different person. Unfortunately, this was doubly-scary for me, since I don't like meeting new people. I mean, maybe the man staring back at me in the mirror was a vegetarian who despised bacon! Or, even worse, maybe he liked to talk about politics in public!

Despite being scared, I told myself to give it the ol’ “college try,” and so I did, for over an entire month. But it only sort of helped. While I did get used to seeing the new man in the mirror, things were just off. Plus, there had been a couple of times when I’d caught myself wandering into the produce section at the grocery store, which was no good. At that rate, it might not be long before I was trying to discuss foreign policy with the cashier. So, I recently decided it was time to re-implement Operation Facial Hair.

Now, you’d think this would be the end of it. It had all been an interesting experiment that had failed, and now I was going back to the status quo. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened. Instead, as my facial hair slowly returned, it too quickly began to look out of place. Yup, you guessed it, I’d grown used to being boring and clean-shaven! Aarrgh!

And so, that explains my current dilemma: I don’t like how I look clean-shaven, but I also no longer like how I look with facial hair. Both options scare me greatly, and I really don't know what to do. I guess my only hope is that eventually I’ll grow used to having facial hair again, but at this point I can’t count on it. Instead, I should probably come up with a Plan B, which may or may not include throwing out all of the mirrors in my house. Still, that’s pretty short-sighted, as there are plenty of mirrors out there in the world for me to stumble upon. On the other hand, my Finnish heritage mandates that I walk around while looking at my feet, so I don’t accidentally make eye contact with a stranger and run the risk of having to make – gulp! – small talk, so maybe I can actually manage to never look in a mirror again!

And, if not, I guess I’ll have to move on to Plan C, although I have no idea where one would buy a toupee.