My physical therapist’s ready to cry, “Uncle!” along with me, since my knee’s turning out to be as stubborn as Norwegians are known to be. It’s been four months since the surgery and I’m stuck at 90 degrees.
Left with two choices: do nothing or something, I’ve opted for something. Monday I head back to Beverly Hospital for a 10:00 a.m. appointment with the surgeon for a knee manipulation, under anesthesia. Both sound less than desirable. Who wants to be manipulated while drugged in some way? Well, it’s imperative I get beyond 90 degrees so I’m entrusting myself to God to oversee Dr. Bend-but-don’t-break-my leg. Unless something unusual happens, I’ll be in and out in one day, no sleepover.
Knees are tricky bones. They bend and bear much over the years. Until they start aching and creaking, it’s easy to keep them under wraps and under appreciated. Of course, I could name more in my body and life I assume will keep on functioning whether I notice, much less say, “thanks.”
Still haven’t been able to kneel for communion, which leaves me feeling off-kilter when I lean forward, balancing, reaching awkwardly to receive Grace. So much more to pray for than my knee at the altar, reminders I’m more than a body. But the essence of me is housed in a body I wish I’d take better care of.
In the nearby town of Hamilton we have Patton Park, complete with the General’s tank. George Patton said, “Courage is fear holding on a minute longer.”
That’s where I am, while seconds tick towards Monday, trying to fight fear, be braver than I am.
Across from the park, the Methodist church’s bulletin board stated:
GOD MAKES ALL THINGS NEW, Thrift shop open.
Holy Mender, have mercy on all who cry for something new.
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