The current rage, for us in the Medicare crowd, is writing a “bucket list” of goals and dreams and completing them before our funerals. They’re often pricey, like those Viking River Cruises advertised on PBS, with chic people chuckling as they sip vintage white wine. Another popular choice is clearly nutty. It seems the height of senility to voluntarily jump from a tiny aircraft at 10,000 feet, hoping the chute functions properly. Scaling Machu Picchu is an often-sought-out thrill.
The pressure — to do it up big before I die — ebbed when I required unexpected knee surgery. The dire warning of possible death or paralysis, delivered by the dour anesthesiologist, made the exquisite high I felt upon regaining consciousness a spectacular trip. The box of apple juice and two graham crackers I had in recovery were haute cuisine because I was alive to savor them.
Although knee replacement is another popular activity for boomers, I needed my right kneecap ligaments tightened to prevent recurring dislocations. It was kind of a “Hail Mary” for me, because it’s rarely done on old folks, but I’d had another episode the week before. When the doctor described slicing off leg bone with ligaments attached, moving them over a half inch and anchoring them down with a couple of screws, I nearly passed out.
Post-surgery, the ankle-to-crotch leg immobilizer brace, worn 24-7, and mandatory crutches proved as challenging as anything on my bucket list. No weight on it at all was the instruction. A trip to the toilet without falling in felt like a daredevil victory over the threat of gravity.
I’ve lived on Prune Hill long enough to take the amazing view for granted but, stuck on my bed 24 hours a day, I began to notice dynamite clouds and sunsets, and crows using my rooftop as a diving board to splash into the pool of air. I saw a rainbow arc from the Columbia River into the airport.
My 65th birthday was one of the few times I dared to go out, except to the doctor, for nearly two months. I was hell-bent on celebrating instead of just moaning about getting older. I downed an oxycodone saved for just such an occasion. My husband hoisted me up into the back seat of the minivan and stuffed in my crutches, and off we went to Washington Square to buy an iPad for me.
It was thrilling just to see the I-5 bridge in the rain and clunk through the beloved shopping center on those armpit-chafing crutches. All the colors and lights were like a Christmas extravaganza after my confinement. I sat in a Starbucks, sipping a mocha frappuccino across from my husband the saint, who had patiently cooked meals, done the laundry and helped me shower since surgery. It was a perfect party.
My bliss was short-lived. If there is a Knee Bummers category in the Guinness Book of World Records, I surely qualify. Three nights after my joyous outing, my other kneecap, also prone to dislocation and weakened by all the resting, popped out at 3 a.m., on my way to pee. I landed at an angle too difficult and painful for me to push the thing back into place.
It took a call to 911, a paramedic with a shot of fentanyl and four supervising firemen to return it to its proper location. Now, that was an adrenaline rush. The burly firefighters hoisted me down my long flight of stairs on a stretcher made for shortsighted seniors who buy houses with second-floor bedrooms. Combined with the ambulance ride to PeaceHealth, it was the adventure of a lifetime.
I now wear a smaller, sportier brace, 24-7, on my left knee. I cannot have surgery on it until the right knee recovers completely.
I used to scoff at snappy bumper stickers that said, “One Step at a Time.” Now that’s a metaphor for my life. Nine months after surgery, I still can’t go downstairs the normal way. Hoping to speed recovery, I joined a gym at a local old-folks home where I am a triathlete compared to the poor older codgers struggling to pedal geriatric versions of elliptical runners. I love their courage and, together, we battle the ravages of age.
I am uncharacteristically all right with my abridged version of La Vida Loca. I managed to walk a 5K this summer. Hiking down and back up the steep trail at Crater Lake with the help of my dorky Alpine walking sticks was a feat equal to scaling old Machu Picchu for me. Happily, I did not need to be airlifted out by chopper.
Maybe my husband and I should treat ourselves to one of those extravagant river cruises, after all. Or I could sit inside a glider, pretending I am an osprey sailing silently over the Columbia River.
For now, I am happy each time I walk through the supermarket without either knee malfunctioning.
