Crutches

Crutches used to be fun to play with until I got handed a pair as I left Stanford Medical following my meniscus surgery. Then they weren't fun at all.

My one big field trip with crutches. 2 blocks up to Alamo Square.

I finally got the surgery after trying to decide who to go to and when to go. Choose the young, brilliant, highly recommended female surgeon just fifteen minutes from my house or go with the allure in the name Stanford Medical and a highly recommended male surgeon, doctor to the Stanford athletic teams, on the board of physicians for the US Ski Team. Going to Stanford Medical seemed as close as I'd get to going to Stanford University and to this particular doctor as close as I'd get to being on the US Ski Team. I contemplated how I could add a blurry reference to Stanford on my resume.

More pressingly, could I eek out another ski weekend, another spin class, another bike ride; could I finish a few more challenges in Matt's Epic Winter Challenge? I couldn't. It was time.

So I went to Stanford, got the cap and gown (open in the back), had the surgery and was out with my crutches the same day. By the time I figured out how to really use them I didn't need them and had no chance for strangers buying me sympathy drinks at a bar.

CPM machine. Moves my leg so slowly I sometimes think it's off.

To be fair, I thought I didn't need them the day after surgery and stumbled into physical therapy sort of half-trying, half-pretending I knew how to use them. Then the PT set me straight talking about vicodin influence, massive swelling, need to use, you left them over there (!) - and so I made peace with them and contemplated all the sympathy at work freeing me from expectations because, you know, I'd be on crutches. Alas, they never made it to work.

Damn you crutches, you were supposed to be my wingmen.