I won't lie: during my first post-op visit at the Hospital for Special Surgery, I couldn't wait to tell Ms. Zhylinskaya that I had stopped taking all pain medication, including meloxicam, an anti-inflammatory.
There was other good news to report, too:
- On her fourth and last visit, Ariele had showed me how to resume my regular morning push-ups (100) and sit-ups (300) by positioning a chair to help me get up from the ground.
- "Thank you for making my job so easy," Chella, the home nurse, had said when she discharged me three days earlier.
- Before releasing me from home services, Matthew, the young PT evaluator who informed me that his position required a doctorate, noted that my flexion had improved by ten degrees. "You still need to work on your extension, though," he added, eager to show me a few more exercises. For one, he assumed a prone position on the couch in the Florida room to work his legs with the red resistance band he had given me. The scene could have served as the opening for gerontological porn movie, at least in the mind of this Dirty Old Man.
Before I had the opportunity to share any G-rated evidence with Ms. Zhylinskaya, she marveled "Your recovery has been awesome" and directed me to the X-ray room. Fifteen minutes later, we were looking at my "screens" on the computer where the metal plate that had been attached to my right femur looked like the arbitrary borders the British had established for Iran in the Middle East.
A comparison of my knees before and after surgery showed significantly more cushion between my patella and femur.
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December 2024 |
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April 2025 |
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