Down This Mean Street

I turned on to the short street one block down from Third Avenue on Friday morning and braced myself.

This was the one-year anniversary of my double-knee surgery, after I had fallen in the snow in front of a house on this street.

That was the start of a hellishly long hospital stay and a lengthy rehab.

As I walked, I had a powerful urge to bare my buttocks at the house where I had hit the deck and scream, “I’m still here, you sons-of-bitches!” at the top of my voice.

But I resisted.

This isn’t a time for anger; it’s a time for gratitude. There’s a lot of turmoil going on in my life right now, but at least I’m here to deal with it.

Yes, it’s already been a year. The event seems both distant and recent—and somewhat surreal.

“How you much you like them pants?”

That was what the EMT said to me after I had been loaded in an ambulance last year.

“Well,” I said, “I just got them…and they’re very warm. Why do you ask?”

“We may have to cut you out of them.”

It turns they didn’t have to slice up my blue jeans and I’m wearing them right now as I write this. Of course, it was a while before I could put on pants because I was wearing leg braces for months. Back then, I went from hospital gowns to gym pants.

I couldn’t use the bathroom in those early days after the surgery and I have this ugly memory of sitting on a bedpan in the middle of night and crying at thought of being bedridden for so long.

One of the doctors, a very nice Russian lady, encouraged me to think positively, saying that it would help my recovery. And she was right. Despair does nothing but dig you deeper into a hole.

Home Safe

My poor sister ran herself ragged getting the surgeon to examine me and hooking me up with the right people. And my poor auntie was worried sick about me.

After the operation, I went to the hospital’s rehab section every day, first in a wheelchair and then on the walker.

The young women who worked with me in those early, awful days were absolute saints and I wish them all the best.

I spent last Christmas and New Year’s Day in the hospital. I guess it was fortunate that we had such a bitter cold winter, since I doubt if I would’ve been going anywhere even if I hadn’t been injured.

When I came home I was a virtual prisoner, pretty much stuck up on the third floor, unable to leave, except for a daily stiff-legged climb up and down the stairs.

As I got better I felt a need to do some kind of physical exercise. My shrink suggested seated aerobic workouts on YouTube, which I had never heard of. But it turns out they’re a real thing.

At first, I felt rather foolish doing these routines. Sitting in a chair and waving my arms around—it was ridiculous.

But then it finally occurred to me that there are plenty of people in this world who have no choice but to do these exercises because they can’t walk—and never will.

People have been very kind to me when I tell them about my accident and they expressed their concern, but I remind them that I had I hit my head on that day last year I probably wouldn’t be here.

I’ve been back at the gym several months now, even though the original prognosis called for me to be laid up for at least a year-and-a-half.

So, there are plenty of things in my life to be thankful for and I’m not going to waste time with regret or bitterness.

And, rest assured, that while I won’t be baring my keester in public, I do want to let people know that, yes, I’m still here, you sons-of-bitches.