Ten years ago, a very nice orthopedic surgeon patched up the inner workings of my right knee and told me that any further work would be useless. He said the only cure for my disintegrating joints is to replace them.
Which sounds so tempting. Take out the old, painful, can't do anything joints. Have yummy fresh new joints that allow me to do all sorts of wild and crazy things. Like stand up. Or kneel down. Or simply squat to retreive something off the the floor. Hey, I could ride a bike again!
But then I really think about it. And even if I wouldn't get fired for taking three to four months off for the operation and rehab time, I don't know if I could force myself to do it just yet. I mean, it's not like I'm in a wheelchair or something.
It's just the idea of sawing through the bones in both my legs, then drilling screw holes in them to attach titanium (or whatever it is they use now) knee caps, makes me cringe a bit.
Plus, I'd have to have them both done at the same time because I am a major whiney ass titty baby about pain. I don't think if I did one, I could ever make myself go back and do the other. And Jason would probably strangle me out of sheer frustration and misery.
But the surgeon had said I'd have to have it done before a certain age and that age is rapidly approaching and he is turning out to be right. And it pisses me off because this is all my father's fault. He and his lousy ass yankee genes. Everything bad is from his side. Malfunctioning joints. Graying hair at 25. Alzheimers for Pete's sake, every-one on his side is eat up with it. Only good thing I got from him was my height. My mom's side has the good stuff, young skin, a tendency to drink excessively and eccentricity (read: mild mental illness, but in a fun way).
So I guess I need to start planning this. Save up all my time off at work, be extra nice to the boss so she won't fire me. Be extra nice to Jason so he won't kill me. Concetrate on how I could buy a Mini-Cooper if I have new knees, or a VW Bug. I could so totally get in and out of a Bug if I had functioning knee caps. I could actually throw out that three year old bag 'o frozen peas in the freezer. (Flashback: Jason rummaging thru freezer for dinner, "What about these peas?" Me: NOOOOO!! Not the peas! Never, ever eat those peas!")
And, an extra added bonus (see list of "good" mom traits): narcotics!