My Left Knee

No, this isn't a post about how I developed cerebral palsy and learned to paint and write with my left knee.  It's a post about how my left knee is a pile of mush.

Waaaaay back in 1987, my senior year of high school, second day of ski team practice on Mt. Hood, I blew my knee apart.  I tore everything in there except one ligament.  I have a 12 inch scar to prove it.  In the end, I left the hospital with 3 screws and a staple in there.  I didn't walk for 6 months.  I had to work really hard to be able to walk down the aisle for my graduation.  I wore a brace for a couple of years.  Now, when you have the same accident, you leave the hospital on the same day and they have you walking shortly after.  I just happened to injure myself during the stone age.

Fast forward to 1992.  I was rafting on the Deschutes river.  I think I was there almost every weekend that whole summer.  My boyfriend had a ranch outside of Maupin and we spent a lot of time rafting.  Somehow, while trying to stay in the raft or maybe in the process of getting thrown out of it, I got my foot caught under one of the seats and tore my knee up again.  This was the same summer where I ripped my whole thumbnail off and on the 40 mile trip to the hospital, I decided I could no longer stand the previously mentioned boyfriend because he kept asking me "Is everything okay...you seem a little distant" on the way to the hospital.  I don't know if you've had you thumbnail torn off before, but it's a pretty unpleasant experience and it was all I could to to keep from just screaming the whole trip into town.  Anyhoo.  Another surgery to repair tears in the cartilage.

Fast forward to 1996.  I was living with the one of the biggest mistakes of my life and we had a dog named Otis.  He was half black lab and half golden retriever.  We were running through our yard when I slipped in the grass.  My knee bent in a direction that knees are not intended to bend.  Guess what?  Another surgery to repair cartilage.

Fast forward to 1999-2000.  I can't remember exactly what year is was.  I'm duck hunting with my Dad and Brother.  While trying to climb up a bank, my foot gets stuck in about 3 feet of mud and again, my knee defies the laws of nature and damage is done.  Only this time I don't do anything about it.  I'm done with surgery.  No more for me.  I can heal this thing on my own this time.  No, I really can't.  In 2004 I break down and go to the doctor again.  He says, and I quote, "You knee is shit".  He went in and repaired the cartilage again, cleaned up some scar tissue and told me the next surgery I would have would be a knee replacement. 

I can't tell you how nice that sounds.  I nice new joint that doesn't ache, doesn't get caught in some weird spot while you're walking, doesn't decide to just give up on random, inappropriate occasions.  But guess what?  Replacement knees only last about 15 years.  I was 34 at the time and they wouldn't let me have one because I would wear it out.  Now I'm 42.  Still too young.  They want to time it so that your knee quits working right about the time you die.  I just did an entirely accurate internet longevity test and I'm apparently going to live until I'm 95 so it seems as though I have another 38 years to go unless the technology for new knees improves in the near future.

So my knee needs to start learning how to paint or write.  I'm not going to allow it to go down that alcohol route that there is no way I'm going to allow it to have affairs with two women.