That Time When an X-Ray Tech Showed Me an X-Ray on His Phone of a Man with a Beer Bottle Up Yonder...

Brief personal updates

Nothing compares to a TABBY CAT. Fight me.

My ortho tells me I have to adult up, to which I respond, oh, Dr. Chen, all I do is adult. I adult for a living. Look at my prescription history.

But today, we’re talking about my x-rays and the sordid state of my knees. Yes, knees as in plural, as in both have stomped their way into the land of long-term fuckery. It took me 47 years to realize I was born with bum knees. Both kneecaps wander a little bit to the right or left, and I’m running said knees into the ground. Apparently, this injury was a wake-up call.

For the five people who care, the good news is I don’t need surgery now. But I will in about 10-15 years and that’s a certainty. Knee replacement. But everyone’s getting knee replacements these days, Dr. Chen says. Knee replacements for everyone!

The good news is I’m healing. In about six weeks I should be able to walk normally, and, if not, we’re going to expedite it with a steroid injection. Keep up with the PT, keep up with the strengthening exercises. And my ortho handles the weight situation in the most graceful way possible. He’s read about my history of disordered eating and excessive exercising, and I can tell he’s careful with his words. This is not about looking a certain way or fitting into a certain size, this is about getting a little weight off your knees so they don’t hurt as much. The cartilage won’t wear as quickly. We talk about weight without emotion and it doesn’t feel triggering, it feels pragmatic. He pulls up my medical record and talks about all the tests I’ve been ignoring—the annual pap, cancer screenings for the over 40 crowd—and says, you can’t keep ignoring your health. You have to make yourself a priority.

And while I’m summarizing an hour-long visit, my ortho has exhibited more compassion than most and he’s not even my primary care doc.

As I hobble my way to a thrift store, I consider the weight issue recognizing the irony of having just penned an essay about weight. So, I’ve found a middle ground. I won’t count calories or know my weight—I’ll just make a conscious effort to move more when I can and devote one meal a day to a salad. Even if that salad is sitting on top of a cake (kidding). I won’t add drama to this because I’m hopeful that making tiny tweaks will serve me well over time. And if it doesn’t—well, a knee replacement is inevitable regardless.

When I come home, I answer emails, juggle a new project I just scored, and deal with my last Airbnb host trying to scam me out of $700 (but is not winning by any stretch of the imagination because this bitch is back) and my cat’s $400/month insulin meds. The meds that seem to be making a difference and it’s only been a week. But Felix is…sassier. He’s not back to paw-swatting and creating typhoons in the apartment, but he’s playful and sleeps a little less. We have him on Lantus—the one medication that has a high rate of diabetes remission in cats.

Insulin for everyone!

Someone recently asked me why I don’t write marketing articles anymore. I’ve written hundreds and if there’s something new to say, sure, but I don’t write to add noise to the void. Besides, most of my writing is happening off-line with some fun projects coming my way.

And though no one asked, I’m having a lot of fun with my resale business. I love the thrill of the hunt and I’ve been experimenting with vintage pieces.

The next week is a little bananas, but I’ll be back with all the writerly bits through the holidays.

xo, f.

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Finally, a PSA for the adventurous. If you’re anti-crass, click away.

As I was getting x-rayed, the tech and I get to talking about surgery. I’m desperate to be awake for my knee replacement so I can see the whole thing go down and take selfies of me and my cut-open knee. If I wasn’t such an idiot in science, I would’ve wanted to be a surgeon because I’m impervious to our insides. I find the machinations of our bodies fascinating.

So the tech shows me a photo on his phone. It’s an x-ray of a 57-year-old man. And the first thing I see is a beer bottle. And I’m trying to suss out how this beer bottle could’ve found its way into his bottle and then my eyes widen. Confused, I ask, couldn’t he just gotten something off Amazon and avoid getting surgery to have a beer bottle removed from his…nether regions? Hey, everyone has their own party but I’d have to warn against inserting glass into your body.