The Po Show

What a Drag It is Getting Old

Ain't THAT the truth? (Totally OT, have you seen the ads for Louis Vuitton, featuring...****Keith Richards****? How odd is that? I guess nothing says "luxury goods" this spring like grinning cadavers. But I digress.)

I'm talking about my own geezer, who was walking to the train station yesterday morning when he heard (and felt) his knee go "POP!" Yes, he hurt himself walking ("Pretty lame," he commented.) A woman saw him hobbling along the road and gave him a ride to the station, then he managed to hobble from Grand Central to work, and then he called me. He said he was putting an ice pack on it, and it was pretty swollen.

"Um, don't you think you should see a doctor?," I asked.

He ended up deciding that he'd work for most of the day, then come home early so I could drive him to Urgent Care. Exam, X-ray, nothing broken. Rest for a few days and if it still hurts a lot, call an orthopedic surgeon. He's wearing a brace now and it's feeling better. He actually stayed home from work today (though of course he spent the morning working) and we had a nice day together.

It's the chickens coming home to roost, knee-wise. All those years of playing basketball, abusing his knees, running bleachers. The time he twisted his whole leg and sprained his foot playing basketball in grad school (I was 36 weeks pregnant with Matthew, went to the hospital because I was having contractions, tried to call him 500 times, while he was at UCLA Medical Center in the ER himself. He went to our last Lamaze class on crutches). Not to mention all the times Tessa has jumped up and down on his legs, like earlier this week.

I'm feeling a sense of foreboding, that this is just the beginning of physical deterioration for me and the Ro. Nothing major, little issues here and there, little injuries that never completely heal, just an ongoing series of minor things that are a pain in the ass. I went to the dentist recently and saw that I've got the beginnings of bone loss in my roots, meaning I've got implants in my future (and not the fun, now-I-can-wear-halter-tops kind!).

In the meantime, poor Ross gimps along on his bad knee like an old guy. Though not as old as Keith Richards.