My right knee no longer likes me. Even during water aerobics, the gentlest of workouts, that knee doth protest way too much. And I amplify its complaints with my own whining. “Ow!” “Ouch!” “?$&@/!”
So, on the 30th of this month, at some time still to be determined, I’m having a little procedure aimed at relieving some of that pain. Now, Studly Doright is fond of telling people how I made him walk to such a procedure many years ago. And it’s true.
I was a new teacher—afraid to take a day off lest I miss the day I was to be observed by my principal. And in my mind, Studly was having a minor procedure. It was day surgery after all. I just needed to be there to pick him up. Silly me.
I’d forgotten that his pickup truck was a manual transmission and that his knee was in such bad shape that he couldn’t bend it to work the clutch. And he never mentioned a thing, knowing how worried I was about the observation. So he walked, on a bad knee, about two miles to the surgical center.
When I arrived to pick him up, the nurses berated me. “Where have you been? He’s been so sick.”
Still clueless, I said, “At work.” Duh.
It is a testament to his love for me that he only mentions this horrible story once a year. If the situation were reversed, I’d likely harp on it every night.
Of course, as the date for my procedure draws near I am a becoming a little nervous. We live about 20 miles from the outpatient surgical center. Perhaps I should begin walking now. Whining all the way.