The doctor will saw chunks off the bones of my upper and lower leg, and then replace the chunks with parts made of chromium-cobalt alloy. Then he’ll stick in a pad made of high-density plastic to replace the cartilage that has worn away, sew me up and have the orderly wheel me to the physical therapy torture chamber.
I’ve been anxious about it all week, and my mood has not improved as various pieces of medical equipment are delivered to the house:
- A walker.
- A bedside commode.
- A flexible knee wrap with a pump that circulates ice water around my inflamed knee.
- A Medieval-looking electric appliance that I strap onto my leg while lying in bed. It flexes the knee repetitively, forcing it to bend more than it would agree to, if it were given a vote in the matter. Two hours per knee, four times a day.