"TAKING A KNEE" --- A Blog in Three Chapters

The military definition of “taking a knee” is to crouch down on one knee for a short rest or comfortably listen to instructions. A decade ago, NFL Quarterback Colin Kaepernick came up with an entirely different meaning of the term. And in the last four weeks, I discovered my own interpretation.

CHAPTER 1: 

For me, “TAKING A KNEE” meant letting Dr. Sawbones hack off my arthritic knee cap so he could whittle down my femur and hone my tibia in order to shove a round plastic thing-a-me-bob into a gaping mid-leg hole, after which he somehow managed to jerry-rig my leg back together. With Gorilla Glue? I’m thinking maybe. 

“And,” Dr. S assured me those last few seconds before I sleepily sank into surgery, “you’ll have a nerve block and won’t feel anything for a few days.”

My knee was “taken” September 17 and, for a few halcyon days following the operation at Maine Medical, old Sawbones was correct. I almost felt good enough to sign up for the New York City Marathon, or maybe even a tap dancing class. The new joint swung back and forth like a stubborn, un-oiled pantry door, but I suffered no excruciating pain.

During the weeks prior to surgery, friends had looked sympathetically into my eyes like I was about to undergo a full leg amputation without anesthesia, and whispered, “The knee thing is really tough.” So I was semi-congratulating myself for feeling okay in my nerve block bliss.

The leg didn’t actually feel like a real leg, more like I was walking on  a telephone pole, when I shuffled down the hospital hall. A large bandage covered the knee so all I saw was a puffed-up deal with bruises. Not so bad.

CHAPTER 2:

Three days later.

OUCH!  OMG!  OY!  DEAR GOD!  HELP!  I AGREED TO THIS???  GROAN!  WHIMPER!  HOLY HELL!  WAS I OUT OF MY MIND? WHERE’S THE DILAUDID? HOW MANY TYLENOL CAN I TAKE AN HOUR? THIS IS KILLING ME! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Et cetera.

CHAPTER 3:

If you’ve ever wondered how friends feel about you, sign up for a full knee replacement. You’ll be overwhelmed, astounded, amazed, thankful.

Even before arriving home, family members were opening my front door to receive vats of chicken noodle soup and corn chowder, Shepherd’s Pie and Chicken-Veggie casseroles, lobster rolls, crab cakes, meatloafs, blueberry breads, cinnamon coffee cake, chocolate chip cookies, Dilly Bars! And so much more.

Their generosity muted my pain.

Because I couldn’t drive, they chauffeured me to doctor visits, stopped by with bouquets of lush pink dahlias and roses, plus bags of crullers from Lil’s in Kittery. Their cheery texts (“Each day gets easier”) punctuated my morning coffee. Their afternoon visits raised my spirits. 

I felt — feel — am so blessed.

And then TWO TURKEY FEATHERS appeared in my front yard — exactly a month apart. 

Early that morning on September 17 when my daughter drove me up to Maine Med, we spotted a wild turkey feather lying on the front lawn.  Just the one feather. Later that day when Alex returned from the hospital, she picked up the feather and brought it inside. “I don’t know why — but it looked like it meant something,” she later told me.

Yesterday, four weeks to the day after my surgery, I sat in the front seat of Alex’s car as we backed out the driveway to go on errands. “Wait!” I said. “Look — there’s another turkey feather.” 

Lying on the ground in almost the exact same place as the one we spotted a month prior was another large tail feather dropped by a roving wild turkey. It was the only feather on the lawn. I sensed this had to mean something, and Google offered this explanation:

“FINDING A WILD TURKEY FEATHER SYMBOLIZES ABUNDANCE, GRATITUDE, A GROUNDED CONNECTION TO THE EARTH, AND GOOD FORTUNE.” 

Plus, treasured family and friends, and a knee that is on its way to full recovery.