Farewell, Old Friend
Published continually since 1994
We were sympatico for well more than five decades, totaling 20,479 days. We called three continents home, always enjoyed a good walk, even climbed The Great Wall of China in the burning sun.
Ever together, we took bites out of the Big Apple, hiked western trails and chased down everything from taco trucks to la pièce de résistance, THE FAIR CLAUDINE.
It was with me as I taught THE TRE MAN how to ride a bike and drive a car. Present as I coached him and his friends on the football field or baseball diamond. Right there as my son and I went on our annual road trips.
Perhaps most prominently, it was central to my ability to play games, lots and lots of them, especially football. It was faithful as I learned the sport in Colorado and ended my high school career in the Midwest. It led me to the University of Illinois, a couple of junior colleges and, finally, the God’s country that is the Lehigh Valley.
After graduation, it allowed me to continue playing the sport in an NYC league that was equal parts reckless, raucous and incredible fun. You can argue that I shouldn’t have played until age 47 but my old pal and I would’ve resisted that idea to the hilt.
Indeed, we did a lot together - yours truly and my right knee.
So, with some trepidation and after 56-plus years of fun, I bid farewell to my intrepid companion on March 19th at New York’s Hospital for Special Surgery. The 45-minute full knee replacement was a fitting farewell to “Righty”.
Though I was blessed to be pain free in the years leading up to surgery, it was clearly time to act. Righty had been bone-on-bone for years, creating more friction than any Trump presser, and I feared my bad gait would soon begin to affect my hips, back and psyche.
I entered the operating room on the 19th and, within minutes, was administered the gas, putting me in full Rip Van Winkle-mode, not dissimilar to how I felt sitting for the SAT.
After the work was done and I came to my senses, the doctor arrived at my bedside, explaining that, on a scale of 1-10, my knee was a “9” in terms of severity. Perhaps only the Russian judge kept the score short of perfection.
Turns out things went as expected during the procedure - and they didn’t.
As anticipated, the doctor removed three large bone spurs behind Righty, growths he’d seen on the x-rays in January. But he also learned that my knee lacked an anterior cruciate ligament (ACL). It apparently suffered severe trauma at some point and then disintegrated, perhaps a decade or more before my surgery.
“Fortunately, there are lots of things you can do without an ACL,” he said, and I immediately set a big goal of lying on the coach and watching The Masters.
The ACL disappointment was cushioned by the delectable crackers I was delivered by the nursing staff as I recovered. It was my first sustenance of the day and, channeling my inner Eddie Murphy, this was no ordinary snack.
Now a little more than three weeks post-surgery, things are moving along. That starts with physical therapy, which I’ve been sticking to thus far. Soon I’ll see the doc again and get clearance to ride a bike, drive a car, maybe even stroll the aisles of Target.
I wouldn’t say this process is enjoyable, but I know I’m very fortunate. I got a good 56 years out of Righty and am lucky my knee problems didn’t lead to further issues. And surely many others have far greater health hurdles to surmount than I do.
The next time we cross paths, I bet you’ll see a smoother gait, a more comfortable guy. Someone who is grateful to Righty and looking forward to decades of fun with my new knee.
The two of us will see you soon.