La La How The Life Goes On

Knees Up

Posted on: September 7, 2011

It’s been a party here at Chez Jones. My 12 frequent readers will know that my long-term addiction to prednisone has ruined my once-stellar orthopedic health. So much so that the Avascular Necrosis (=bone death) in my knee required surgery. Well, the call for said surgery came on a Wednesday, telling me to report the following Monday for a cadaver joint implant. To be followed by 6 weeks of non-weight bearing status. If you’ve ever had 5 days notice that your life as you know it is over for 6 weeks, then you’ll understand the flux into which the family schedule was thrown. No driving until October. No putting my foot down at all until October. Brace and crutches 24/7 until October.

Luckily my mom flew up from DC to essentially be my 50’s housewife since the Baby Daddy does have to actually show up at work to earn money. She arrived and was just settling in to her role as Church Lady when I promptly got an infection in the incision. I had warned my sweet orthopedic surgeon that it would happen, but he (having dealt with normal humans for many years) said that he would be surprised because I am on so many powerful antibiotics both before and after the surgery. I was like, “Dear sweet misguided man. I am Mama Jones. Trust. That shit is in the mail.” And voila. Off to the ER we went where the ortho doctor on call came down to demarcate the area of concern on my leg. He took out his Special Doctor Sharpie and wrote “8/31/11, 10:30pm, Tad Ballbearings, MD” on my leg below my knee. Now, almost a week after my branding, the missive to himself is still there, immune to any and all methods of lavage. So now every time I look at my knee I see his little shout-out to himself and it makes me crazy. I mean, listen, if Brandon Flowers ever wanted to sign my boobs with his Super Hot Rock Star Sharpie, please believe that my showering days would be over, because that autograph would be something to save, cultivate, and show the grandkids. But I do not choose to memorialize my nights and days with Tad Ballbearings, MD. I choose to have clean-shaven, non-graffitied, smooth as buttah legs, none of which is possible with a man’s white trash tattoo staring back at me.

So, drama. Set off a bit by my awesome Irish nurse while I was in the joint for 3 days. We hit it off right away at the MRSA screening. MRSA, you will recall, is that awful scary antibiotic resistant staph bacteria that hospitals quite rightly treat like bubonic plague. So the policy to to test all incoming patients so that proper precautions can be taken to avoid the staph going mobile through the unit. How do they test for this MRSA, you ask? Well, friends, it involves two rather long q-tips. One for putting up your nostrils and one for putting up your bum. Nice! So the nurse displays the q-tips and asks how I want to do it. I did the nose one right away. And then she said, (and I need you to picture this with an Irish accent): “will you be doing this one yourself or shall I put it in your rectum for you?” I immediately started laughing uncontrollably, managing to squeak out, “That’s a tempting offer but I think I’ll handle it.” She maintained her nursing composure for about 30 seconds and then started laughing with me. Because if you can’t laugh at a little q-tip up the rectum humor, what after all can you laugh at?

On the home front, Scottish Grandma has been in fine fettle, giving my girls a tiny snapshot of my childhood circa 1978. Bambina most enjoys the fact that my mom says that certain behaviors are “naughty” instead of bad, and that she is a “Clever Clogs.” She least enjoys that my mom has not a fanciful bone in her body, so games wherein one pretends to be a horse requiring rapt attention and participation by one’s elders are a total bust with Scottish Grandma. Baby Sister, for her part, couldn’t care less whether SG is fanciful or not because Baby Sister brings her own party wherever she goes and your participation is entirely immaterial to her enjoyment.

But the LOLz are there. Scottish Grandma (non-fanciful and entirely literal, you’ll recall) likes to poke holes in the logic and rationality of the latest Fresh Beat Band plot. She thinks Olivia is a nonsense cartoon about a pig with crazy ideas, rather than a sweet story about an imaginative creature who is rewarded for her big dreams. She deplores any and all shows she deems “rubbish” (British shows Kipper and Peppa Pig being notable exceptions). My brother and sister and I have long been waiting for her to morph into Dana Carvey and start ascribing the motives of Dora and Diego to S-A-T-A-N, but we have yet to be rewarded with that piece of comedy gold.

In any case, I’m 2 weeks into my Long National No Driving Nightmare which means I’m 4 weeks out from getting back behind the wheel and getting control of my own life again. Remember those junior high school days of imploring, “If Kelley’s mom takes us to the mall will you pick us up? Pleeeeease?!” That’s about the shape of things here. Only without the awesome payoff of two hours of arcade Pac-Man followed by an Orange Julius with my 13 year old boyfriend in his Air Jordans. Nope. Just another chance to gaze upon the handwritten awesomeness that is Tad Ballbearings, MD.


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