The doctor was in and I’m out

About 20 years ago, I left the better part of my knee in a mud hole several hundred yards away from a fighting position where my tank crew engaged targets just hours before. It was a miserable, pissy day. Cold. Wet.

It was classic Army weather. We must have been happy every one of us complained about something. During that incident, I tore my MCL. In the ensuing years, my ACL and PCL also suffered from tears. Now, I’m zeroing in on 40 and the VA decides it is time to take another look at my knee.

The doc reading the x-rays and evaluating my MRI advises me that a total knee replacement isn’t going to get the results I want.

“You have to accept the fact that you are not going to be able to run again.”

Thanks doc. I’m 40 years old, fat with bad knees. I could have figured that one out on my own.

So, I’m getting a new brace and a fun round of torture, cleverly disguised as physical therapy. The most irritating thing is my knee is too bad to be fixed and not bad enough to get me the good parking spots.

A classmate pointed out that lawyers don’t need to run. She’s right. But mid-term grades were released today and I still haven’t figured out how to chase ambulances without running. Maybe I need a dog. That must be a second year subject.

Just call me “Hoppy.”

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