Unfriending Arthur

“Which knee was it that I operated on?” came from a perplexed man in a spotless, white coat.

“The right one.”

“Well, you don’t have any cartilage in your left knee either.”

This was the conversation I had with my orthopedic surgeon following an x-ray of both of my knees. He had operated on my right knee to remove damaged, groaning cartilage, and now we were discovering that my femur and my shin bones had become close friends on the left as well.

Doc continued, “I suppose you know that this means that your running days are over. “

I sighed, resigned to having to give up the one activity that helped keep my head on straight, and tried to ignore thoughts of a walker replete with tennis balls.

It wasn’t long until I became acquaintanced with Arthur, with the unfortunate surname Itis. I disliked him from the get go, but soon found out that he was going to be my constant companion and learned to compromise. He followed me around everywhere I went. He would go to bed with me at night, and often wake me up the next morning before my alarm. Arthur dogged my every step, and he was not quiet about it. He snapped, crackled, and popped like a bowl of rice crispies.

Moreover, he interfered with my activities of daily living. Steps were painful, so I learned to go up on the better leg and down on the worse leg. Yardwork was difficult, so I decided I needed a riding mower. And when I knelt or bent my knees to garden, I could feel them popping in and out of joint. It didn’t take me long to discover that the largest stall in a public restroom was my spot, because it had a grab bar to help me stand back up again.

I coped as long as I could with the Arthur-wrought vicissitudes, but, sooner than I’d hoped, the day arrived when I exclaimed, in Popeye fashion, “That’s all I can stands. I can’t stands no more.” It was time to seek treatment. I started asking around for recommendations from friends, coworkers, and my ortho doc. My friend, Ed, recommended replacement. He had had both shoulders and a hip replaced and seemed to be doing well with it. I inquired with my doctor, and he recommended a joint replacement specialist within his own practice.

So I scheduled a consult with the joint replacement doc, who told me that I was too young yet to go that route, since knee replacement would only last 20 years or so. He told me I should wait until the pain was unbearable before going that route.

“Hell,” I thought. “I’m already there.” And I’m sure the people around me were tired of my grunts, groans, and grimaces.

But, based on the surgeon’s counsel, I began to seek non-surgical relief in my effort to unfriend Arthur. The first thing I tried was a supplement to help alleviate the pain. Squat.

Pain relievers were the next course of action. I went from NSAID to NSAID trying to find one that would de-itis Arthur. Nada.

Finally, on the advice of my GP at the VA, I looked into injections of a natural lubricant made from rooster combs. Here is how it is described on the rxlist website:

“SYNVISC® (hylan G-F 20) is an elastoviscous high molecular weight fluid containing hylan A and hylan B polymers produced from chicken combs.” (rxlist.com)

“Whoa, Nelly,” I exclaimed. “I would love something elastoviscous squirted into my knees.”

The day arrived, however, when I decided to opt for that option. I just hated the idea that chickens would have to be de-combed for my comfort.

Off to the VA I headed, hopeful. As I sat, legs dangling, on the examining table, In walked the orthopedic PA, accompanied by a nurse with a tray full of massive-looking syringes. I did a double take, and thought that surely I must be in an equine veterinarian’s office.

The PA sat in front of me, and began with, “Mr. Fendley, you seem to be a good candidate for knee replacement. “

“I know,” I said, “but I’m not ready to go that route yet. Just jab me with the Synvisc.”

She proceeded to come at me with a syringe fitted with a needle that looked like it could enter my knee on one side and protrude from the other. I gritted my teeth and waited for her to do the deed. As she began pushing the needle into my right knee, I was reminded of the arthroscopic surgery I had had years before. I could feel the fluid filling my knee joint. This was followed by an injection of Cortizone. Then it was rinse and repeat with the other knee.

Was it worth the discomfort of an injection of chicken combs in order to find some relief? Sans doute. Arthur didn’t leave, but I had found a way to live with him.

But I still feel sorry for the chickens.