Well, I have once again messed up my knee. This is not a new injury, this is a recurring one that won't just go away. There is this goop (that is a proper medical term) that gets all up under and around my kneecap and pushes it up and around and all out of whack. My kneecap doesn't actually dislocate, which is good because there is no pain comparable to that, even childbirth, and I've had both happen. It just makes my muscles spasm together tightly around my kneecap in response to an injury and I can't get the goop to un-inflame long enough to push all the goop back where it is supposed to go. The real bummer is, the ER doctor can't push the goop back where it goes either when it gets this messed up. I know, I went to see him last night. He confirmed that it was in fact messed up, stuck a needle full of morphine in my butt and sent me home where he has suggested I call an orthopedic surgeon.
I knew he was going to say that nonsense about the surgeon. Every time I do this to my knee, a doctor, with presumably very little education, tells me I have to have surgery on it. Well, friends, that's not going to happen. I've had knee surgery on this same knee before. Do you know how bad it hurts? For weeks, it hurts! And I can't put even the teensy tiniest bit of pressure on it for eight weeks. Yeah, right. I have three teenagers at the house. Can you imagine what they would do once they figure out that mom can't run them down and beat them with a pepperoni stick? It would be chaos. It would be chaos just out of my reach, is what it would be. Do you know how messy three teenagers are. I have one with ADD, one who isn't really into showering and hygiene and another who is a man-diva and changes clothes no less than four times a day. These people cannot be left unsupervised. I have to yell at one to do his laundry while forcibly holding another under the shower head and making him brush his teeth, all the while making sure the other one doesn't fall into a daydream and wander off a cliff. These people could cause the apocalypse at any given time, and I am just supposed to sit on the couch and watch the end of days? No.
Then there is Dan. Dan is a wonderful man who is sweet tempered and hard working and I cannot leave him alone in the kitchen. He has something wrong with sinuses and has had since he was about ten years old and he can't smell. Your sense of smell directly effects your sense of taste. Therefore he cannot taste anything either. But he has the spirit! He really wants to smell and taste! This causes him to put so many herbs and spices on food that they are inedible to the rest of us. He cannot tell which spices go together either, so he may put half of a ginger root in the Italian food or half a bottle of Indian Curry in the tacos. And he can tell when something is spicy hot, so he adores red pepper in all forms. Flakes, pastes, powdered, bottled, he doesn't care, just throw it all in. As long as eating it makes you instantly turn red and break into a sweat, he's a happy guy. If your mouth isn't swollen at the end of dinner, he feels he has personally failed you. And he's so nice, that failing you really upsets him.
Then there is the idea of surgery itself. Do any of you know what happens during surgery? Anyone? They go inside of your body. That's right! Despite the fact that you are all nice and sealed up, they just break right in. They will cut you open and dig around in your insides and play hide and seek with the surgery sponge in there. If God had meant for people to go inside of my body to fix things, he would have made a door. Somewhere on me there would be a little door with an inset handle (you know, so it didn't look like I had a wart) and all you'd have to do would be to open this door and fix whatever the problem was. Like when the lights go out in the kitchen because I have run the dishwasher and microwave at the same time (God bless houses from the 1920's), I just go to the breaker box, open the little door and flip the switch. Good as new! I have no little door! Stay out of the inside of my body! I do not approve of being viciously gashed open by God knows what kind of psychopath in a doctor's coat (and you can buy those things online, I've seen them) so he can go in and poke and prod and “take a look” and when I wake up he tells me some cock-and-bull story about being fixed. He probably didn't even do anything productive in there. He'll just look around, make fun of my knobby kneecaps to the nurses, drink coffee, play with my tendons to see what he can make my toes do, listen to James Brown and then stitch me back up. “Oh, yeah, Ms. Ledford, we fixed you up real good” and he snickers into his coat sleeve as the orderly snorts coffee out his nose in a fit of hysterical laughter. I am not to be fooled that easily. So, if they don't mind, I will keep my body firmly sealed just like it was made and I will leave the goop in my knee to settle down wherever it pleases. Until it starts hurting again.