Week two of rehabbing – but for what, exactly?

FATHER’S DAZE
Emmitt B. Feldner  for The Review

It’s just a good thing they’re not holding the tryouts for the U.S. Olympic sprint team right now.

My knee is getting better, but I’m still not 100 percent yet and not ready to run the 100-meter dash.

Who am I kidding, I’ve never been ready to run the 100-meter dash in my entire life.

Even when my knee is completely healed, I’ll be nowhere near ready to run the 100-meter dash – jog, walk or crawl, maybe, but not run.

If you’re out of the loop or missed it last week, I went on the injured reserve list with a sprained medial collateral ligament in my right knee, suffered when I performed a maneuver on the ice on our front porch steps that also is not part of any Olympic routine.

I was consigned to wrapping my knee in ACE bandages – when I didn’t have it wrapped with ice – and hobbling around on a cane.

It did get me out of any heavy lifting for a week – not that I ever really do much heavy lifting, either literally or figuratively.

It just means my training for Olympic weightlifting had to be put on hold as well.

All right, I’ve never been a candidate for Olympic weightlifting either – although many would say I would at least half-qualify for the clean and jerk.

I’m glad to say that Abel, the cane, has been slain – or at least consigned back to the dusty corner of the attic where it had been hiding until I brought it out to help me hobble around.

I’ve also lost my personal chauffeur service, as the knee is well enough now that I can drive myself around.

For that, my wife was much happier than I was, since she was drafted to serve as my chauffeur.

That forced her to, among other things, sit through a village board meeting that I had to cover for the paper.

I thought that perhaps seeing what I have to sit through several times a month as part of my job might elicit some sympathy from her, but after all these years she’s probably well beyond having sympathy for anything to do with me – she figures it’s well less than any sympathy she’s due for putting up with me on a daily basis.

While it’s doing better, my knee still isn’t 100 percent.

There’s still the occasional twinge of pain when I turn it the wrong way, too fast or too far, but it’s not enough to bring me to my knees – literally or figuratively.

It can make sleeping a bit of a challenge, as rolling, tossing or flipping into the wrong position can bring a sudden jolt of pain, but fortunately that doesn’t happen too often during a night.

It’s not the first time in my life that I’ve endure pain in my sleep.

For instance, shortly after we were married, we were in a car accident and Terry fractured one of her ankles.

It put her in a cast for several months, back in a time when they still made casts out of thick, heavy plaster.

I spent the entire time she was in the cast with black-and-blue shins from her rolling over in her sleep and whipping me with her cast.

Fortunately, she did eventually get the cast off and my legs eventually healed – and I’m sure my knee will, too.

It did make me wish, though, that the doctor had put a cast on my knee to help it rehabilitate – revenge might be worth it, even if it is 30-plus years later.


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