Noodling about a needle in the knee
My right knee. Good lord.
It’s a saga, really; anyone in this age group who spent their teens and 20s and 30s (and in my case, 40s and 50s) running and cycling and chasing balls around a tennis court knows what my next paragraph will bring.
The knee hurts now, some days more than others, but most of the time. Surgery 18 months ago repaired a torn meniscus, and then a long car drive to the beach caused a flare-up (and stranded me far from home).
Two weeks later and ago, I walked into the orthopedic doctor’s office expecting to be told I’d torn the cartilage again and would need another surgery – a thought that had me worried and miserable. Although the surgery was a breeze and recovery quite easy, it’s not the kind of thing a person wants to do every day, or even two years in a row.
“Not torn cartilage,” said my surgeon. “It’s arthritis.” And although he didn’t say just arthritis, my brain and my knee heard it that way, with an exhalation of relief that I wouldn’t need another operation.
“We can give you a cortisone shot now,” he said, and while his assistant left the room to prepare for that, the doctor pulled out his phone and showed me photos from his cycling trip the previous week. If I was going to trust a cortisone shot from anyone, it would be from the man who fixed my knee in surgery but who also uses his own knees cycling all over the place.
I hadn’t expected a cortisone shot that day, and so I hadn’t mentally prepared. Normally in advance of medical procedures (including vaccinations), I do visualization and deep breathing. Sometimes I’ll even plan a post-shot treat for myself, like a brownie or something. I find it helps with the anxiety.
In the days leading up to the appointment, my colleague told me about the knee injections his wife gets.
“That needle is BIG,” he said, more than once, to which I replied, “Why would you even look?”
Sitting there on the exam table, I started to get that old flakey feeling – anxious and sweaty and a bit lightheaded.
“I’ve been known to faint in doctor’s offices,” I told the nurse as she walked in with the vials of medicine.
“Did you have breakfast?” she asked.
“No,” I said, embarrassed. She left and returned with graham crackers and juice. A toddler snack.
By the time I was lying back ready for the shot, word must have gotten around that the patient in room B was a sissy. I opened my eyes only long enough to see five people in white coats surrounding the table. One of them was holding my hand.
“I’m sorry for being such a pill,” I said. I closed my eyes and covered them with my other hand, just in case. The doctor cleaned my knee with alcohol and then sprayed something cold on it.
“You’ll feel a pinch,” he said, which is usually a big, fat lie, but this time he was telling the truth. It was a pinch and nothing more. The medicine didn’t hurt going in, either.
“You did great,” said the nurse. “We cater to sissies here.” The others in white coats were smiling like they were proud of me.
The knee is feeling better. Cortisone wears off, though, and there are other injections that last longer. This time, though, I’ll know to mentally prepare myself.
“Those injections?” asked my colleague. “That needle is even bigger.”
Again, I wondered why anyone would look. I know I won’t.