Originally Posted Saturday, November 8, 2014
Fuck me!!!!!! I woke in the night with a throbbing knee. I took two Percocet, but they didn't seem to touch the pain. When I got up this morning, I couldn't bear any weight on my leg. What happened?! Last night I was the hero of the rodeo. The doc told me I could not damage it by walking on it. I sure am hoping he was right. It feels ruined this morning. There is nothing for me to do but lie in bed now, knee elevated with an ice bag.
O.K. I'm scared now that all my worst imaginings will come true.
I was ready to be a hero and start running in a week. Now I pray the operation hasn't made it worse.
All the omens were there. I was the last patient on a full moon. I'm not superstitious, but this is just statistics and science. If anything bad was going to happen, the chances were best then, no?
Today, the heroism of not having anyone to nurse me seems punishment. I must get back into the studio, make friends again. Even a gang of Storyville hookers would find compassion in their hearts to care for an invalid (evidence may be contained here). But as I have said over and over again, nobody wants to take care of invalids, except, perhaps, the walking wounded for whom you've already shown kindness. I often think that some of the most caring relationships (even though they had to be dysfunctional) had to be found in places like the decadent cabarets of Berlin in the 1920s. I'll take "Freaks," the movie by Todd Brown, as my reliable guide to caring.
It takes one to know one.
O.K. I'm going to take some pills and try to get back to Lalaville. I'd rather have the Dilaudid or whatever they shot me up with when I came to, though.
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