My knees sound like chicken bones snapping in half between the jaws of a rabid, mighty-toothed dog. It is impossible for me to get out of bed in the mornings without the entire neighborhood jolting awake to the dreadful crackling sound, despite my attempts to stretch and bend them before I begin my morning routine.
I slowly roll over, drape one leg over the bed, and look at Roger to see if I've woken him yet. Then I throw the other leg over the edge of the bed (while staring at Roger through bleary eyes), and I heave my body upward until I am standing. So far, so good.
And then I move, and cringe while I listen as my knees sputter to life.
My knees generally aren't in pain, unless I am using them, such as when I am backpacking. (Please note that such exercise is a rare occurrence, thus the infrequent pain.)
After our rather unfortunate excursion in the Ouachita Mountains, that expedition in which we cut our trip short after two days because I could no longer handle the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other thing, Roger and I decided that I should have my knees examined.
Since I love having excuses to leave work in the middle of the day, I heartily agreed and made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon in Dallas that works with the Dallas Stars' hockey team. This association makes me feel like this particular doctor knows more than other doctors, the same way I feel like Prada shoes are better than Steve Madden, because Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan? They buy Prada.
The only dissimilarity (only?) is that my insurance covers the difference between this doctor and the others, whereas my insurance doesn't cover the difference between Prada and Steve Madden shoes. Unfortunately, if my insurance did cover that difference, I might never be able to quit my job.
Yesterday The Doctor examined my knee, and it was not quite as spectacular as I imagined it would be. I expected that he would run all sorts of physical tests on my knee, forcing me to run until I was in pain and sweating at my elbows, or perhaps require me to do a series of jumps in which my entire weight was resting on my knee.
I thought that perhaps he would hook up a series of electromagnetic sensors and observe my knee across several monitors, and then come back to me with a grave look on his face and say, "Jes, I'm sorry to tell you this, but we're going to have to replace your kneecap."
No such occurrence! He felt my knee, bent it in directions that I didn't think it was possible for a knee to bend, and then he asked me about four hundred questions. He discussed with me the problems with me knee, speaking in medical terms, and though I understood what he was saying at the time, I couldn't remember a word of it ten minutes later when I was trying to explain to Roger about my appointment.
I had a follow-up appointment today. A physical therapy appointment. I learned stretches and exercises, and I am to perform these exercises every day for three weeks, at which time I am to reappear to The Doctor for a second evaluation.
During today's appointment, my physical therapist and I were talking about what to do to recondition my knee, and since it can be a sensitive subject, I said, "I'm sure it wouldn't hurt if I lost weight, either."
The physical therapist looked at me and said, "Yes, losing weight would definitely help."
(pause)
"I have lost a total of 54 pounds so far, and I have much further to go, but you'd be amazed at how much of a difference it has made on my knees."
If she hadn't made this last statement, I think I could have easily been perturbed at her, because how dare she agree with me that I need to lose weight? Her last statement qualified her as someone who knows, someone who understands, someone who has been there and is doing something about it.
My weight, over the past few years, has been like a yo-yo. When I went through my depression, I reached my highest weight ever, a weight so high that admitting it to the Internet is embarrassing. Eight years ago, I was a size 6. In the trenches of my depression I was, at times, an 18. And while I am fully responsible for putting myself there, it felt horrible.
Slowly, I am peeling that weight off. For me, it is more of an emotional battle than physical, because I had initially put the weight on as a self-defense mechanism - my own attempt to protect me against the unpredictability of the future.
Now that it is coming off, where does that leave me?
I feel exposed.
Vulnerable.
Out of control.
Uncertain.
and Hopeful.
Why is it that the summer affects me so? I am lethargic. I am sleepy. I am tired of working. I had a dream last night that I quit my job and went to an audition for the Pussycat Dolls. And they hired me. Is it a sign?
