Meniscus, Menascus, a Green and Yellow Casket

I went grocery shopping the other morning.  I had a very specific list with about two dozen items for two different grocery stores.  I know the stores almost like the back of my hand so I can draft up a pretty concise list based on route strategy and best prices.  Being an old fart I always shop for the deals and steals too.  All that is also calculated into my list.  For both stores.  It takes a good thirty minutes to draft.

It's a problem, I know.

I lost the list about two minutes in to the first store.  I retraced my route several times.  It couldn't have been on the floor for more than thirty seconds.  I guess kudos could be given towards the fastidiousness of the produce team, but I sure wished they gave me a full minute.

I think I did pretty well, considering, but I guess I'll never know until I reach for the Pop Tarts and they're not there.  Kidding.  Do they still make those things?  I haven't had a Pop Tart since 1970.

Kernal Klutz experienced another incident the other day.  He actually took a few pictures this time so hopefully both you and he will understand it was just a total freak accident.  Total. Freak.  Accident.  Just like all the others.

So, I was going to make bean soup with some leftover ham from the holidays. I decided the crock pot would be the ideal medium with which to accomplish this.

I ambled down to the pantry where the crock pot is stored.  This cock pot, by the way, was just purchased in December.  The old one had cracked and was leaking.  So I hurriedly bought the new one cause we needed it for meatballs at our holiday party.

Here is the pathway into the kitchen from the pantry.  I generally deploy the crock pot on the counter to the left near the paper towel dispenser.  Notice the butcher block to the right with the hanging pot holders.

Notice the hangers on which the pot holders and dish towels are hanging.

Notice how-even when you are ambling by at a snail's pace, like an old poop just getting up in the morning, scratching his ass and meandering downstairs to start the coffee-the end of the crock pot cord can catch quite easily in a hook.  Apparently.  By golly.  Which is what happened. 

And since the cord is only like, fifteen inches long, it didn't take long-even at a snail's pace-for resistance to be met.  Since I was carrying the crock pot by the handles with which one normally carries a crock pot, and since said handled part is essentially the base unit that the cord is also attached to, that part stayed in my hands as my forward movement was thwarted.  That was fine. 

The unattached ceramic insert and hard plastic lid went airborne though. Which was still fine.

But when they eventually hit something solid, like the floor, that part didn't go as well.  They both sorta crashed and burned.

I have no idea if that's my story but I'm sticking to it.

In another WTF event I tore the medial meniscus in my left knee back in November.  At least I'm about 99% sure.  An actual diagnosis from an orthopedic surgeon will be forthcoming.  Someday.    But first he's gonna want an MRI.  So there goes another couple weeks.  So I'll get an official diagnosis about four months after the injury incident occurred.  Good thing it's not life threatening.  

Oh, and by the way, I do have decent health insurance.

In the meantime, I've been walking around this planet like Festus in the old Gunsmoke TV series, in pain ranging from a two to an eight at any given moment.  I know.  I'll bet you're wondering what the hell is going on and how did this saga begin?

First of all, I'm Gettin Old.  Just waking up, let alone moving about can cause all sorts of physical complications.  So my first recollection of knee pain doesn't really correspond with any catastrophic event. I apparently just got out of bed.

But then there was an event on a ladder.  Actually off a ladder.  I had been pruning the rose arbor, and when coming down I mistook the second rung for the first.  While not an extreme distance, dropping two rung elevations to the ground rather than an expected one can catch you off guard and many times have detrimental consequences.  I ended up coming down very hard on my left leg, twisting my knee in the process.  Which in turn dropped me to the ground in excruciating pain. 

Ay Carumba!

Actually, I'm pretty sure my vocabulary didn't stray to a foreign tongue.  I'm pretty sure it stayed  a lot closer to the gutter.

Let me check.

Yep, my memory concurs.  The only thing it doesn't recall is how many times that word starting with "f" and ending in "k" was dealt.  In between the gasps for breath.  Fifty?  A hundred? 

That word doesn't have to be stated loud to be effective by the way.  You can mutter it through searing pain.  It helps.  Somehow.

I couldn't get up for five minutes.  No one was home nor was a human around for at least a few hundred yards.  Not even close enough to offend or alert if I had been shouting. 

The next day I slipped on some wet leaves.  I managed to stay afoot, however, I re-twisted the already sore knee in the process. 

Ah Chi Mama! 

There I go again.

I ended up on the wet ground anyway, for another five minutes, uttering the "f" fucking bomb all the way down.  Actually, I have recently developed an entire colorful collage that goes something like this; "Fuckity fuckity fuckity fuckity fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck."

I repeat as necessary.  Once in a while I might add a few other expletives for color.

It was about this time I figured out the complication, whatever it was, was not going away quietly.  It had been a couple weeks, it was time to see the doc.  You see, as I mentioned above, there are constant aches and pains.  I'm getting old. 

So when some new ache or pain comes around I give it some time to dissipate on it's own.  Do some home remedy.  Could just be an old man thing.  But if it persists after a couple weeks and is exquisite enough, time to see the doc.

So the Wednesday before Thanksgiving I call and my doc's schedule is full.  Go figure.  But I could get in and see his nurse practitioner.  In pain I acquiesced, even though the last NP I saw almost killed me with her missed diagnosis. 

"Oh, you have pleurisy.  Here's some Ibuprofen."

No, actually, I had appendicitis.  Ten days later, after it had perforated, that was confirmed.  You can read all about that right here: Angels on my Barcalounger.


Ibuprofen, by the way, does not come close to touching the pain of appendicitis.

Besides the pain on the medial side of the knee, there was and still is a pretty large swollen sac behind the knee.  The NP focused on that, just like the other NP focused on my lungs after I mentioned it also hurt when I took a breath.  The current NP said I probably had a Baker's Cyst.  She did order X-rays and gave me a script for Norco though, so I had that going for me.

I got the X-rays done that same day and then spent the holiday weekend at our wonderful daughter's gimping around.  Cruised over to San Francisco on Black Friday, Union Square was packed.  There also must've been three hundred cops, plus a fucking Swat Humvee.  Just in case. 

Crowded public places.  Cops with machine guns.  The new norm.

I'm not big on Norco, but it serves a purpose.  I also won't take more than one per day, and that's gotta be late in the day.  Cause, like, otherwise, how am I going to get anything done?  So that left the better part of each day hobbling around here like a one legged Civil War vet taking care of things that constantly need taking care of when you live in the country.

The week after Thanksgiving I had to follow-up and call the NP for the X-ray results. She didn't bother to follow-up and call me with results like my real doc's assistant ALWAYS does.  I had to leave a message.

When the NP's assistant returned my call she informed me the X-rays came back negative.  What a surprise.  Ligaments, tendons, meniscus's and tears thereof only show up on MRI's. 

After she informed me the x-rays were negative, I think she thought we were done.  It was, after all, just a Baker's Cyst.

Until I asked, "So what do we do next?"

"Oh. You want more?"

"I can't walk without pain, you idiot.  Yes, what's next?"

I didn't really say the "idiot" part, but I'm pretty sure I must have been thinking it since it ended up here in print  .

"I guess we could do an ultra sound'.  I'll talk to (the NP) and get that going," responded the idiot.

An ultra sound?

"Yes.  Please. Thank you,"  I replied.

In the meantime, as I waited, and meandered about in pain, I discovered my lovely wife's hair dresser had also recently experienced a torn meniscus.

The meniscus, by the way, is a cartilage like gasket thingy that lies between a couple moving parts in the knee.  It tears or breaks sometimes for a variety of reasons.

So she ended up going to the ER, somehow saw an actual orthopedic surgeon who was on call that day, got an MRI, a cortisone shot (which alleviates the pain) and arthroscopic surgery scheduled.  She was still a month away from her surgery, but she was pain free.

My lovely wife was tired of seeing me in pain.  After she told me her hairdresser's story she was convinced it was the way to go.  I had an ultra sound scheduled-why I still don't know-but it was two weeks away.  She figured at the very least I could get a shot of cortisone and be pain free while we waited.

The morning after she relayed the story we had an argument.  I really did not want to go to the ER, she was adamant.  I conceded.  Holy cow.

I was, after all, tired of being in pain.

After checking in, it was a long, three hour wait.  And I don't wait well.  And I don't even have a smart phone to waste time on.  Good thing I was in pain.  That kept my patience in check.

I finally got in and a visiting female doc bitch with absolutely NO bedside manner and a red nose larger and brighter than Rudolph's basically stated she couldn't do anything.  She couldn't order MRI.  She said it wasn't an emergency.  Why were we wasting her time?

I don't think she even touched my leg.  My lovely wife was in tears.

My lovely wife asked if I could at least get a cortisone shot. 

The visiting female doc with nosacea said no.  The bitch.

She said she had no idea who we were.  She didn't arbitrarily give cortisone shots to just anyone. 

WTF?  I'm a sixty-three year old cortisone addict?  It was if we had asked for heroin.

Three hundred dollar co-pay and over three hours wasted.  Gone.  Poof.  Nothing.  Not even sympathy.

Don't get me wrong,  While that experience was extremely negative, when I went in with a perforated appendix, even though I had to wait two and a half hours, I had a five star ride.

So I went home and awaited the ultra sound.  I have no idea why.  My knee's not pregnant.  This exercise may show a cyst, but that's only a symptom.  Holy cow.

Neither an X-ray or ultrasound will show a torn meniscus, but the NP ordered them anyway.  When the results of the ultrasound came back the NP's assistant reiterated it was a Baker's Cyst.  I was ready to scream.  Then she said they were referring me to an orthopedic surgeon.  And I was relieved.

It's where I wanted to be, but it took almost two months to get there.  And another week of leaving messages at the ortho's office until I finally got through to a live human. Apparently there was another ortho office in town that recently closed so this new one is rather overwhelmed.  Small town.  The receptionist was nice, but the soonest I could get in was the twelfth.  Of February. 

And I was out of pain medication and my back and butt were starting to hurt because I was gimping weird.  And I got another month and a half to go?  Even before they order an MRI?  Holy shit.

So I called my doc's office to see if I could at least re-up the pain meds for another month.  And they can't do that over the phone anymore because of the opioid epidemic.  But somehow, someway, I was able to magically get in and see my doc, not the NP.  My real doc.  You know, a physician.  With a degree and everything.

I love my doc.  He's a great guy.  Smart guy too.  Easy to talk to.  Good sense of humor too.  Has to.  He's deals with me. 

I gave him the sweetened, condensed version.  Apparently the NP and her assistant had not been consulting with him about my situation as the assistant said they had.  No wonder things had not been progressing as they should have been.

He was also a little surprised about the ultrasound, but did say a Baker's Cyst is many times a symptom of a medial meniscus tear.  Which I probably had. 

I had been sent out to wander aimlessly in the wilderness with no resolution for two months by the NP and in five minutes I was totally dialed in with my doc.  He gave me a cortisone shot AND more pain meds, which hopefully I won't have to be taking much longer.  My knee's still pretty banged up a few days after but I'm hopeful the shot will work.

The upshot of all this is that I will NEVER see an NP again.  They're out to cripple or kill me.  Had I seen my doc originally chances are I could have had a cortisone shot much sooner (like a month ago) and no doubt saved the whole cost and time of the ER visit.  Plus the argument with my lovely wife.

The cortisone shot is only a bandaid, of course, but a much appreciated one.  If indeed it is a torn medial meniscus I will need some arthroscopic surgery to repair.  Which generally is not a big deal.  I think the MRI will be worse.

Since I've turned sixty-three a seemingly casual, yet constant parade of klutz capades, accidents and mishaps have been occurring, but there's nothing glaringly apparent that I am aware of that I am doing different.  Shit just seems to be more disturbed about me now than before. 

Yet I am still the calm, concise, peaceful and jovial fool I have always been.  At least I think so.
I hope it's not a new norm for me, but if it is, watch out.  As I may have already mentioned somewhere, I wouldn't trust me with anything more fragile than a pair of socks.

I have been, of course, working on a plethora of projects around the old homestead here, some of which might make it into print.  Good thing none of them involve dynamite.

Happy Winter!