My “countdown to the court” timer hit 0 a full WEEK ago. I should be out swinging my racket, breathing in the the lovely 60 degree weather (and the cedarfreakingpollen) pounding little yellow balls and enjoying life. Instead, I’m at home in stretchy pants (yes, I’ve gained 3 pounds from my bottom… my low weight, I should say. I hope it’s not all on my bottom!) It’s not a pretty picture y’all. Stretchy pants, though, VERY cute EcoGirl pants, and fuzzy crocs with socks. I’ve quite obviously hit the bottom.
My problem is that my knee is worse than ever, and not even slightly better. Was it the fact that I missed 3 weeks of PT because they were too busy to see me, and I was too busy to book myself in at another place? Was it the
Ruby Red Vodka and the two-stepping while enjoying a house concert at my very
own house by the amazing band Beat Root? Probably, but really, it wasn’t that crazy. That was 8 days ago. Since that night, and I only danced a couple of songs, and had a few drinks (holds one hand up 5 fingers splayed) my knee’s gone so far south. It shoots sharp pain and then gives way. Well, I’m not sure that it gives way as much as I give way. I make funny old people noises out of the blue when it happens and clutch whatever or whomever is closest. Sometimes my hands just fly up in the air in an unconscious effort to de-weight my knee, much to the surprise and amusement of the people who are blessed just enough to witness this little spaz attack in person. This truly sucks (tennis) balls.
At PT on Wednesday, I could not do basic things, and the PT boy said, “Wow! Your knee is pissed!” Why yes, my boy, and so am I. I’m so pissed, in fact, that I’ve booked an appointment, with the PA of my surgeon, for Tuesday. I might just have to demand another MRI. If we need to go back in there, I wanna do it NOW while all the deductibles are paid. I want to do it now because I’ve wasted so much time. I want to be on the court right NOW. Hell, I’d be happy to just walk without pain or spazzes as the white hot icepick style torture shoots through me.
Given my tendency to seek comfort in Gluten free graham crackers stacked with about 10 ultra dark chocolate chips, zapped in the microwave for 30 seconds, 3 pounds probably isn’t bad. So, for right now, please don’t hate the fuzzy crocs, the hair from last night, my ugly metal crutch (I carry around just in case) or the chocolate on my chin. Put your finger on the timer and restart my countdown clock. Let’s see if another 30 days, or another surgery, whichever comes first can reverse this damage. My knee and my soul (not to mention my monkey) are desperate.