I’ve been struggling with this one for a while, but I should probably take some time to let my non-local friends know about the new-ish hiccup in my universe. As a lot of people know, I’ve got an iffy knee, courtesy of a mountain bike vs. hidden ditch accident in 1989. Some of my high school friends may even remember that I spent the summer and fall of our grade 12 year on crutches after some arthroscopic surgery, again, thanks to said accident. (There also was the grad sleepover that year, where Steve Lee grabbed one of my crutches and threatened to beat the snot out of someone in our class for picking on another kid who was passed out. Ahh, good times.)
During that surgery, a portion of the meniscus in my knee was removed/compromised. 16-year-old me didn’t consider this do be of much consequence. 39-year-old me is, however, seeing the result. Most devastatingly, the docs told me that my running career is finished, which has been one of the real joys I’ve discovered since quitting smoking over a decade ago.
I will, in all likelihood, be the recipient of one of two new body parts: either (a) an Oxford Knee partial replacement (which they don’t want to do, because I’m not old enough), or (b) a meniscal allograft, more commonly referred to as a meniscal transplant from a (deceased) donor. The former is a pretty standard procedure: lop off part of the head of the femur and the head of the tibia, throw in a chunk of titanium and plastic, and “new” knee accomplished. The latter, however, is far less common, but (in my mind, anyways), far more awesome, because it means, hey, ZOMBIE KNEE. As the surgeons have all said, however, despite it’s gruesome awesomeness, there is no positive outcome here; a partial is only about pain management, not a bionic replacement, and a meniscal transplant just puts it off for a while.
Unfortunately, my first surgeon has dropped out, because he moved to Alberta (one more reason to hate that damn province), and the second is a bazillion miles away in southern Ontario — there are only half a dozen in the province that perform it, and although I meet all the requirements (of which there are many), the marginal nature of a few may make me ineligible.
So, do me a favour and say a GRR ARGH for me. And, if I get the allograft, there’s a killer knee tattoo coming.