The MRI was a far more pleasant experience than I had been warned it might be. When they repeatedly ask you if you're claustrophobic and all you can say is, "I don't know, let's find out." ... Doesn't bode well. But they only rolled me in about hip-deep, and they gave me headphones and the local country station, and other than the fact that my toes immediately wanted to go dancing and take both knees with them, it was not bad.
Oh, and there was no place to put my arms except on top of my stomach, which meant that my fingers kept going to sleep because the blood was draining down into my elbows. But I did learn a new skill: raising the arm that did not have custody of the panic button and waving it gently back and forth in the air without moving anything south of my navel, then switching hands.
I think the only 45-minute span of my life that has been longer, was when I was pushing Firstborn out and had no idea how to get that particular piano out of the transom [and may God bless Fanny Brice for the metaphor]. But the staff at the facility couldn't have been more pleasant or reassuring. Do I ever want to do this again? No. But if it's necessary, I want to go to them.
That was Wednesday the 3rd. On Tuesday the 9th I found a message from my doctor's office on my cell phone as I was sitting at a light, waiting to merge onto the freeway and go bond with my Sisters of the Wool. "Please call back about the results of your MRI." Not good. If it's good, they leave you a chirpy message that says, essentially, "You're normal, thanks for playing." Work on Wednesday was crazier than usual, so no chance to call them for an explanation. When I did on Thursday, after much phone tag, this is what they said:
It's inconclusive. Could be a stress fracture. Could be a tear. What you want to do from here is up to you. If it's not causing you much trouble or discomfort, then we'll just see you for your well-woman later this month. If it is, then you may want to make an appointment with an orthopedic doctor.
OK, for two months I've been experiencing "discomfort" that on my personal PainOMeter is considerably greater than childbirth and slightly to significantly less than when my gallbladder blew, five years ago. More to the point, I can't dance, which is my primary form of exercise, entertainment, and stress release. Live with it? I don't think so.
And naturally the clinic whose number they gave me, is not on my network, which fact I didn't find out until midway through the appointment-making process. But I have found one who is, and a handful of backups in case I don't care for him. Maybe he can figure out if I have a stress fracture [which I think is the less likely prospect, given what my bone scan looked like last year] or a torn something-or-other in, on, around or under my kneecap.
Two of the people in my office have experience with him; he non-surgically treated one of my attorneys, and he operated on the ex-husband of one of my secretaries. Attorney says “he’s kinda goofy”; takes one to know one, so that bodes well. And the secretary says that he’s very warm and gracious. A warm and gracious surgeon? This I have to see for myself!
Who knew? I've been walking around on a broken leg for two months!
The problem with my knee is actually a stress fracture of my tibia and thankfully not something that will require surgery. Once the bone has healed, there may be some physical therapy to restore core strength, but for now I’m to use a cane – which I purchased on the way to work after my appointment yesterday and am trying to figure out – or crutches, which LittleBit just happens to have in her closet, and she's my height.
She adjusted them for me last night and I practiced with them, and I don't like them. I will probably just stick with the cane, as it leaves one hand free to lug my tote, my knitting, and my lunch basket.
I’m supposed to ice my knee three times a day because it is inflamed, and to find a water aerobics class, which at this time of year probably means an expensive suit from Land’s End, not a cheapie from Wally World. I think I threw away my incredibly ancient swimsuits during the last spasm of domesticity.
I did a pretty fair impression of Joe Boyle as "The Monster" from Young Frankenstein in the lunchroom at work yesterday: "Ruh ruh ruh ruh RITZZZZZZZ!"
I have a re-check with the orthopedic man in six weeks. I’m not sure if or how my workload will need to be modified until then.
Knitting content? Sure, no problem. Completed the heel flap on the second Boring Sock for LittleBit while we watched a video last night. Will turn the heel today and start chewing away on the gussets.
Next week is mammo and well-woman and my second bone density scan because Ortho Man can't figure out why my tibia is so unhappy with me.
Oh, and the PT man is easy on the eyes. That's your obligatory testosterone content for the week and about as good as it's likely to get around here until further notice.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!