Knee Replacement 10: First Look
Thirteen days after surgery, I walk into Heiden Orthopedics in Sandy, Utah. I’ve deliberately left my crutches in the bed of the truck, which is a bold move. Though I’ve been gimping around my house without crutches for a few days, I’ve yet to make an excursion of this distance—all the way from the parking lot to the building to the office. Not exactly a marathon, but a stretch for me. Though I know I’ll pay for it later with greater swelling and pain, I’m trying to be a hotshot, the has-been athlete still trying to please the coach.
With concentration, I’m able to bend my knee enough to slowly amble across the tarmac and into the building with a minimal limp. I flex it more in the elevator and am able to affect something of a stroll into the office. This has the desired effect at the front desk and the X-ray technician, a young man in his early twenties who looks like he’s still an athlete and doesn’t have to concentrate to stride down the hall, says he’s never seen anyone walk in without crutches after just thirteen days.
I was just really bad at the crutches, I say, my humble modesty glowing through.
He smiles and brings me into an examination room, where I sit on a table and recover from the effort. Presently, I’m joined by Dr. Heiden’s assistant, a young woman named M’kail, who removes the dressing and allows me to see my new knee for the first time.
She says it looks good.
It doesn’t look good.
The skin is jaundiced from the iodine, the scar is black with crusted blood, and thirteen blue lines are drawn on the skin, about half an inch apart. At the bottom of the scar is a scribble that, upon closer examination, turns out to be Dr. Heiden’s initials.
There were probably a lot easier ways to get the Olympian’s autograph.
The scar is going to be quite small, says M’kail.
I’m not sure how I feel about this new information. Don’t I want a big ole, bad-ass scar? A war wound that could be lied about, injuries inflated, my own indomitable courage stretched to heroic proportions. Not sure if all that works with a little pink line over the knee.
As I’m ruminating on future falsehoods, Dr. Heiden strides in. He’s seen me walk in, and surely he’s now noting the lack of crutches in the room. I wait for him to make impressed noises, but none are forthcoming as he quietly bends to inspect his work. Running his hand over the scar, he also says it looks very good and then asks about pain levels and sleep. I tell him that there is too much of the former to allow for the latter, and he says that’s normal. It won’t last forever.
Suck it up, buttercup.
He didn’t actually say that, but I heard it.
Did I really think I was going to impress a five-time Olympic gold medalist with my pluck, irascible grit? Coach has seen it all and is unimpressed.
I change the subject.
Knowing that he’d once raced professionally on the European cycling circuit and had later been a team doctor for several of the top teams, I ask him who he likes for the upcoming Tour of Spain—a grueling bicycle stage race similar to the Tour de France—that’s about to begin. As there’s a dearth of sports to watch on television in August, I’ve committed to learning about the Vuelta so that I’ll have something to watch through my endless recovery days. As each broadcast is four hours long, bike racing is great for passing the time
Heiden picks the favorite, Jonas Vingegaard, because his chief rival from the Tour de France is not riding. He’s also of the opinion that Vingegaard’s team, Visma–Lease a Bike, is the strongest in the race. But he cautions that the UAE team might surprise people. I have more cycling questions, but his assistant opens the door and gives him the time-to-go look. He shrugs and writes me a prescription for physical therapy, and then I’m on the long gimp back to the truck.
I hadn’t impressed the good doctor, but as I get back to the truck, I’m happy with the effort. I’ve projected a gritty facade that, even as I drive home, is crumbling into the stricken fawn that will spend the next three weeks on the couch, watching interminable television broadcasts of other people pedaling bicycles across the Spanish countryside.