Baby Boomer Ailments

Last July I was running through the final rainfall of the summer, before everything parched and died. I put my right leg down hard and came to an abrupt halt in the company parking lot. The pain was excruciating. I hobbled to my car, not caring if I were drenched in the process. By the time I arrived home, I could not bear weight on my right leg. Dutifully I called in sick the next day and went to see my family doctor, a small South American woman of about fifteen, with a charming accent, no bigger than Eva Longoria, no smarter than Charo. Why, then?, you ask. Well, I never have to wait to see her. And when I do see her, she whips out her prescription pad in the wink of an eye. She knows that I have already diagnosed my problem and her actual job is to give me the drugs to fix it. (Shingles! Sciatica!)(Prednisone!Prednisone!) But this time it was a little different. I didn't really know what was wrong, and Dr. Hispanic Princess didn't either. She yanked my knee left and right, I gave a couple of appropriate yelps, she wrote her magic prescription for 800 mg tabs of ibuprofen, and with a reassuring "Call me if it doesn't get better", she sent me off in the disappointed custody of my husband (he was hoping for the GOOD dope).

After a week of wearing strange and bulky velcroed support devices on my knee, it got better. At least ok to walk on, go up and down steps, and sit all day at my deadly computer job without a whole lot of yelping. Dennis was glad; he had sampled all the drug stores and medical supply dealers in the area, seeking the perfect knee brace. He just wanted me to stop yelping and go back to cleaning out the cat box. And cooking. And doing laundry. Well you know the drill, if you are 56 like me. We (women) wanted it all, and by golly they (men) wanted us to HAVE it all. Only we had to get it ourselves. But that's another story.

Anyhow, the darn knee just never seemed to get its groove back. It made me yelp asleep in bed, it made me yelp if I accidently hyperextended it.I got a brand new superdeluxe health club quality treadmill for my birthday, but was afraid to use it with any degree of effectiveness. Finally I decided to go to a Real Doctor, a handsome and charismatic orthopedic surgeon who with breathtaking efficiency had me xrayed, MRI'd and diagnosed in less time than it takes Dr. J lo to flip open her laptop and ask yet again if I am still taking my reflux pill.(NO NO NO).

So today I get my diagnosis. I felt somewhat silly sitting fully dressed in the exam room, waiting for Sincere MD to tell me "You have osteoarthritis, you overweight middleaged out of shape but nevertheless attractive cow, what did you expect," and then I could laughingly exit the room with apologies to all for being such a whiner and go back to the treadmill with lots of nsaids to keep me motivated. BUT NO.
I have a Real Thing. I have a torn meniscus, like an athelete. Like a skiier.Like someone who actually DOES run. And it requires arthroscopic surgery to fix. IS THAT COOL OR WHAT??