OK, here goes.
New Year’s Eve, 1989. I’m stepping out of my apartment building, sometime in the afternoon (no booze yet, so that has nothing to do with this story). I put my foot down, and I encounter ice (inside the lobby – apparently the super had mopped the floor or something, but the low temperature caused whatever moisture was left on the floor to freeze). I go flying. I land, knee-first, on a jagged bit of metal, which goes right through my kneecap (although I didn’t know this at the time). I get up. My knee hurts like hell, and it’s bleeding. I figure I’ll go back upstairs, and I do get up to the fourth floor, somehow, leaning heavily on the handrail as I hop on one foot up the stairs.
I sit down on the couch and it becomes apparent that I’ve really done something bad. I can see that my knee is split wide open. OK, I tell myself, you’ve got to call an ambulance, because there’s no way you’re going to get to the hospital on your own.
I call the ambulance. They take me to a city hospital (which is an experience in and of itself here in New York). The doctors have a look. They tell me I’ve shattered my kneecap. The bleeding is nothing to worry about, they say. They say I’ll need surgery to repair the kneecap.
It’s New Year’s Eve. There’s not a surgeon in the place. They admit me to a room. Did I mention I had no health insurance at the time? The room has eight beds. Seven of them are occupied by people who’ve been sent there from Riker’s Island (a New York City prison). They’re handcuffed to their beds. They’re mostly screaming for methadone. The guy next to me is there because he was body-packing cocaine in from Colombia and one of the bags started to leak, so he turned himself in.
A day or two later (I can’t remember), I have the necessary surgery. They use screws and wire to reassemble my kneecap, and send me home on crutches a day or two later.
No problem. I get stronger, I ditch the crutches and use a cane, and eventually I ditch the cane. Years go by, and I walk around perfectly normally.
Then it starts to bug me. Sometimes it swells up and hurts like hell, and I can’t walk for two days. So I go see an orthopedist, supposedly a good one (he’s actually been featured in New York Magazine as one of the ten best in New York – obviously I’ve got health insurance at this point). He says that one of the screws is poking into muscle when I bend my knee all the way, causing it to bleed, hence the swelling and pain, and it has to be taken out, which is no problem, since the bone is all healed now. That will solve my problem.
So I have the surgery. It does indeed solve the bending and poking and bleeding problem. However, my knee is never the same after the surgery. I can’t walk more than ten blocks or so without excruciating paid. I just can’t get around. This goes on for a couple of years, and I get sick of it.
I see several orthopedists. They look at my x-rays, recoil in horror, and tell me they don’t want to get involved in this. I begin to gather that the surgeon who took out the hardware really fucked something up badly, and the orthopedists, because of professional courtesy or whatever, don’t want to get involved.
I finally see an orthopedist who tells me that whoever operated on me the second time took out a whole buch of cartilege and tissue that shouldn’t have been taken out. Basically, there’s nothing in there anymore. He says I need total knee replacement. I tell him to go for it, because I’m sick of this.
I have the knee replacement. I go into the hospital on Thursday morning. They do it. I’m up on my feet hobbling around the hospital the next day. They send me home on Sunday. I’m back at work the next Thursday, albeit with a cane. After a week or two, I lose the cane. Physical therapy helps, but I’m getting better just walking around and doing whatever I want. The therapy seems easy. I get better and better.
The knee replacement is wonderful. I can do anything I want. It works great. No pain. Solid joint. My knee is better than it’s been since 1989. I love my new metal knee.
I go to another orthopedist. He say