Surgical Madness and Farmer's Market Drivers

Looking back, I see I left you all hanging, on pins and needles no doubt, with my torn meniscus thing, which I actually injured a year ago in November, 2017.

I did have successful surgery on that in late May of this year, and my knee still appears to be doing well. I did go down on it hard up on the hill a couple weeks after surgery though when I weed whacked over an ancient ant hill and fourteen thousand of them little critters started zooming up my two legs.  That got my immediate attention, and I moved quite rapidly, much like anyone would move if being attacked by an army of merciless no doubt killer and zombie ants. I tripped in the process.

But the meniscus is torn or agitated by twisting, and this was a straight down shot, so the meniscus is fine. Now I just have this uncomfortable lump on my shin that should go away in a year or two.

Probably.

So while I was recovering from knee surgery I was taking it easy.  Quite properly, as I should.  I definitely did not go out and play rugby, go ballroom dancing or take on some form of mixed martial art.  Not that I could.  The best art I can come up with is yard, and I mostly buy that stuff.

One afternoon I was hanging up clothes, easy enough.  Level ground, back lawn.  About five feet from the utility room.  As I was hanging, with clothes pins of course, a dish cloth dropped.  My left arm, the one that wasn't engaged, moved down deftly and rapidly to catch the escapee.  In doing so, I felt a major twinge in my left bicep.

"Ooooh," thought I, "that's not good."

The next day I dead lifted a fifty pound bag of chicken feed.  As soon as I made the vertical lift up I heard a loud "snap" and I felt immediate and very sharp pain in same said left bicep.

"Wow," thought I.  "That's not good either."

The next day I was down in my lovely wife's cut flower garden and noticed one of the drip "t's" needed a little tightening.  Obviously not thinking like an injured and civilized human being with half a brain, I twisted the connection.  With my left hand of course.

Annd another loud "snap", came my way, emanating from the same said left bicep location.

Here's one thing I have learned.  It's never a good thing when you hear body parts snap.  Nor does it feel good.  It's a good thing I was already on my knees cause I would have ended up there anyway.  It was also good thing I had already made an appointment with my orthopedic office the day before during the post op appointment for my knee.

This bit of inconvenience has not been quite as bad as what happened to my right arm nine years ago when I severed my right bicep tendon.  I know, I know.  Weak tendons apparently run in my family.  My Uncle had some issues and so has my brother.  It's a genetic thing.  There's no other explanation.

Anyway, I was helping a friend's daughter move a sofa downstairs and while maneuvering a corner I felt a pretty decent "twinge" in my right bicep.  Not a snap, but a twinge.

About two weeks later I was at the driving range warming up for a round of nine on our favorite back woods cow paddy country almost a golf course.  I was swinging an easy seven iron.  The first two went nice and smooth.  During the third swing I felt my right bicep go "boinnnnng".

I know.  Twinge, snap, twinge.  Boing.  What's this discourse coming to?

My right bicep immediately began to swell, to epic proportions.  Then, three days later I was on the road.  I reached towards the rear seat to grab my backpack.  With my right arm.  Cause my left arm was driving.  During the lift I felt something bad in an already painful situation, like a stretch gone too far.  The pain was so intense I had to pull over.  Which I should have done to begin with.

With that last movement my entire right arm was soon black and blue.  My entire arm!

But wait, there's more.

That weekend my lovely wife and I were flying to San Diego to see the kids.  My arm was in a sling, because I, uh, didn't want to continue injuring it.  We were in the security line, just about there.  Since my arm was in a sling, I tried to take off my shoes with my feet.  You know, the old toe to heel action.

As soon as my left toe hit my right heel, or the other way, I felt a snap in my right hamstring.  I went down immediately, like a drunk on ice skates.

So there I was, creating chaos.  And there's something you should know about me.  I really do not like attracting attention, really.  I am a confirmed and bona fide blender.  I thrive on passing through public places and life in general completely unnoticed.  Yet there I was, on the ground, one arm in a sling, flopping about like a fish.   And there were people everywhere.

Barnum and Bailey just brought their greatest show on earth to the security line at Sacramento International Airport and it was me.

The guy behind me was great.  He immediately bent down to help as this floppy fish was endeavoring to get back upright.

My lovely wife, on the other hand, hearing the circus, er, commotion, turned around, looked down, and asked, "What are you doing down there?"

I definitely lost style points that day.  But, in the process, I gained remarkable relationship currency.

I was able to get through security and took stock.  My right hamstring was swelling like a helium balloon and I was limping like a three legged tortoise.  But that wasn't getting in the way of a San Diego weekend.  Besides, I think it was a special grand kid occasion.

I didn't have health insurance at the time, but I still went to an urgent care outfit with our daughter as soon as we hit the ground.  The doctor who saw me tried to ascertain if there was something going on, like, weird connective tissue issues, because all this was happening at once.

"Or," he said, as he shrugged, "it could just be timing and bad luck."

As it turns out, both observations were correct.

I got a twenty per cent discount cause I paid cash.  And that paid for the pain pills.  My entire right arm and entire right leg were black and blue.  Together, for about a week.  I think I walked lop-sided for that week since there was an extra ounce of black and blue on one side.  And I probably could have started some sort of weird tattoo trend.  You know, dye one half your body blue.  Au natural.

I finally got an MRI on my shoulder on June 20th.  It showed there are some rotator cuff issues as well as a major "impingement" hampering most movement.  Which makes sense.  That's where the majority of pain is constantly emanating from.  The rotator cuff only barks with certain movements.
And then there's the bicep's tendon, which isn't really there anymore.  It essentially just disappears.

I saw the doc, Dr. Mario Luna, by the way, on June 25, 2018.  He gave me a gave cortisone shot, which did not work at all.  During the follow-up appointment a week later, it was decided we would go for surgery.  He stated at that time it would be late July or early August, roughly four to five weeks out.  Seemed reasonable.

July came rolling around and I heard nothing.  Finally, the last week of July I started calling his office.  I left two messages without a return call, and then on my third attempt I magically get Melissa, the office manager and surgery scheduler.

Wah-lah!  Lucky me thought I.  I identified myself and she started looking at the schedule.

And then she said I was on for October 9th.

And I said, "Excuse me?"

And she said, "October 9th."

To which I responded, "But the surgeon said..."

To which she responded, "Well, I do all the scheduling and I should know. The surgeon's always give optimistic time frames."

Somewhat snippy, as a matter of fact.  It was a painful August.  And September.

But as late September came rolling in things started happening.  I had to do some pre-op stuff.  Blood work, EKG, chest x-ray.  Bam!  Boom!  Done!

I was done with the pain and limited movement.  I was ready to go.  The date actually got moved in mid-September, by Melissa again, from the 9th to the 11th.  Which was fine.  I was totally OK with that.  Two days, meh.

I had a pre-op scheduled with the surgeon the morning of the 10th.  After that I was going to the local outpatient surgery center at the hospital for their pre-op routine.

Then I was scheduled to arrive for surgery at 7:30 AM on the 11th , ready to get on with my life.

Tuesday afternoon, the 9th, I got a phone call from Melissa.  The surgeon's wife had just gone into pre-mature labor that morning and had to have an emergency C-section.  Dr. Mario Luna rushed to be at her side.

OK.  I get that.  I was a little disappointed to be sure, but that's part of the reason he's a doctor.  To provide for his family and be there for occasions such as this.

"So when will I be put back on the schedule?"  I inquired, assuming I ought to be somewhat close to first on his list.  Maybe a week or two.

And she said, "The first week of December."

And I said, "Excuse me?"

I felt like my insides had just been kicked out.  And she carried on about paternity leave, knew something like this was going to happen and so on and so forth.

I probably tuned her out, cause, you know, my insides had just been kicked out.

I called her back later that day.  I told her to put me on the schedule.  First week of December.  With Dr. Fuckhead.

I was a victim the rest of that day.  Cause my insides had just been kicked out.  But I also discovered while I wallowed, I did not like being a victim.  So I stopped.

The next day I did some research and found another highly rated orthopedic outfit in Auburn, just down the road.  I got the referral from my GP, who was astounded Dr. Fuckhead had put me on hold until December.

I went and got copies of my MRI and other pre-op records.  Bam.  Boom.  An appointment was made and I saw Dr. Greg Lichtman on October 22nd.

He explained in substantially greater detail than Dr. Fuckhead what was going on with my shoulder.  He also said I have taken all the appropriate steps before contemplating surgery, eg cortisone and even physical therapy a year ago.  Surgery is scheduled for November 27th.  Done.

As far as Dr. Fuckhead is concerned?  He can go fuck himself.  He didn't even make a phone call.

Fool me once shame on you.  Fool me twice, fuck you.  With a capital K.

I will be proffering up a couple, um, rather scorching reviews for him on Health Grades and Yelp.  I mean, how does a physician, in any kind of conscious, leave a patient on hold for five months while the patient is in constant pain?  What's that oath?  Do no harm?

As long time readers are aware, I've got a problem with most drivers out there.  I've been screaming about slow-goes in the left (or passing) lane for years now.  And of course my pettest driving peeve has to do with the morons that flip on their turn signal as they are turning.

Like, why bother?  If you're already there just don't do it.  You're insulting your intelligence.

Back in my youth, when encountering slow drivers that weren't paying attention, my mother would say "They're driving like an old lady in a Cadillac."

OLIC

Then, when I was on the outside sales road in the 1990's into 2000's, the worst drivers on the road happened to be mothers in mini-vans.  They got extra points if they were on the phone, which half of them were.

MIVWP

I have a new one.  "You're driving like you're going to a Saturday Morning Farmer's Market.  In a Subaru."

SMFMIS

We live down the road from a Saturday morning farmer's market by the way.

In case you were wondering.

I also came up with a fabulous torture technique, as if the dark, deep state type guys haven't already thought it up.  Play on food allergies.  That is, if you're subject has any.  Otherwise, just start pulling toe nails.

Take me, for instance.  I'm lactose intolerant.  If you want to learn something from me, well, first of all, ask.  I've got no secrets and I really don't know anything about nothing.  Ever.  At all.

But if you really want to make me talk, threaten me with some cheddar.  Or Mozzarella.  Take one of them cans of whipped cream and shake it real good next to my mortified head.  I'll talk.  I'll give you more than you ever wanted to know.

Speaking of cheese, I have a really funny cheese story.  I may have mentioned it before, but it's been a while, so I'm gonna plead poetic insanity.

Back in my senior year of high school, some way too many years ago, I took a boy's chef class.  Twice.  Not because I didn't pass the first time, but because I had plowed like crazy through all my required courses my first three years and subsequently needed an extra elective each semester of my Senior year.  Otherwise I'd have only been in school for three periods.

It was that or sewing, and I have big thumbs.

Boy's chef was first period, and one morning we learned about cheese.  One thing I learned was that an instructor should not expose warped teenage male minds to the pungent aroma of Limburger Cheese.  Ever smell that, let alone eat it?

A compadre and I, the same compadre I drank a bottle of Annie Green Springs wine with in the same classroom, managed to walk out of class with a couple pieces of Limburger.

We took it to our next class, which we also shared together, Mythology.

See?  I told you I had some time to kill.

As we chatted with classmates here and there in the couple minutes before the bell rung, we also tore off little pieces of cheese and mushed them under the desks.  Much like you would with gum.  We did this under about a dozen desks all over the room.

A couple periods later I walked by the room.  The door was open.  A number of desks were stacked outside.  A dozen I think.  Mythology was held out on the soccer field for the rest of that day.  Larry and I still laugh about that.  Never got caught.  Never were suspect.

In closing this latest round of madness, it is with sadness that I announce the last two hens from our original flock of twelve, circa 2012, have moseyed on into that great green open meadow in the sky.  They were almost 7 years old.

The average age of backyard hens is 5 to 8 years.  Cause I know you were just wondering that thought.

One preceded the other by about a week, and the rest of the younger flock respected them both during their final hours and let them die in peace.  Chickens can be quite Darwinian at times, pecking and hacking at injured and dying members of the flock.  Survival of the fittest.  Watching too many poultry cannibal flicks.

Or, maybe they just like chicken.  Everyone else seems to.

Not so in this case.  Our last Buff Orpington was down for about a day and a half before she passed.  Everyone left her alone.  There was respect.

I visited with her several times during the process, and I definitely feel quite melancholy.  There's been a lot of feathers lost since those first twelve came to our door.  Predators, disease and age.  All of which has educated this old man and most of which has been chronicled in previous pages on this website.

I have been able to adapt and deal with both the predators and disease.  I haven't quite got the age thing handled yet.  If anyone comes up with a solution for that please let me know.  You may have a looming fortune on your hands.