On My Knees

NOT a post about prayer.

My mother always warned me I'd be sorry for:

Running.
Going barefoot all the time.
Getting chilled.
Getting wet.  And then chilled.
Not wearing a hat.  Ever.  And getting my head chilled.
Eating nuts ... which, of course, leads to weight gain.  And endless, endless regret.

All of these things (in my mother's worldview) cause arthritis.  Betcha didn't know that.

Well, now you do.

She didn't, however, warn me about the bad genes she married.  My father died before I was two and therefore didn't live long enough to enjoy The Family Knees, and my mother was not close with My Father's People. But my childhood was haunted (well, a little bit, especially looking back) by the specter of little old ladies in wheelchairs. Wheeling by in my memory, in black & white, like a scene from a Fellini film.  My Aunt Miriam with whom we were close had a hip replacement (back when they were beta-testing replacements as a category) that gave her feet wheels, not wings.  Thus, more specters. 

So, imagine my surprise and vague, uneasy sense of déjà vu when, at a very young age (my opinion) I started having knee pain.  (Oh, look.  Here's another one of these.  I can't resist.   
( listen) DAY-zhah VOO)

First it was nagging.  Then it was disconcerting.  After that, it got limiting. Now it's just ... kind of bad.  So on Monday, I called "My Orthopedic Surgeon" who's been shooting my knees up with cortisone (and, I presume, making me ineligible for participation in The Olympic Games or the Tour de France) and, as they say, "turned myself in."

I'm scheduled for replacement of my left knee at the estimable Cleveland Clinic on Monday, November 1.    


One of the things I'm planning to write about on this blog is that.  So far all I have to report is a calendar entry.  Not a news flash but one must start somewhere. 


Stay tuned.