clothespin

All week I've been reciting to Jamey what I'm doing in preparation for my knee surgery, such as going to the video store to get a good supply for the recovery period, and making sure all my books from this quarter are turned in to the library. The repetition calms me; here I'm doing it again. As we were sitting on the couch last night, I looked at my legs, which had a quarter inch of stubble.

"I'm going to shave," I told him.

"They'll shave the surgery site anyway," he replied.

"Yeah, but I don't trust a man with a razor around my legs," I said, and then couldn't believe I said it.

When my friend Michelle had knee surgery, her brother wrote "NOT THIS ONE" in marker on the appropriate knee. I'm tempted to do the same.

The surgeon will do his own writing on my body, a permanent tattoo of sorts. I would rather be holding the pen. It's hard to surrender control.

The word "left" is still fading from my shin, as is the purple "x" on my foot where they checked my pulse. It's one of the last things I remember before going under, asking the nurse what the “x” was for. I knew why she had written “left.”

Recovery is going as well as can be expected. Though the swelling in my knee doesn't look normal, I am assured by Jamey and the physical therapist that it is. The bruises are beginning to spread out in garish colors, from the yellow browns around my knee to the purple greens up my thigh (also normal). When I take off the band-aids that cover my wounds--3 small slits, two under the kneecap and one on the left side--I stare for some time before I redress them. The stitches look like black spiders on my skin. It's utterly grotesque, and I'm unreservedly fascinated.

I’m also engrossed with how my body compensates for the loss, how the body grieves for its flesh. Missing: cartilage, part of tendon on left side (can’t remember name yet), full use of my left leg, range of motion in left leg, use of hands while walking (they’re busy with crutches). My back protests from sitting in the same position. My fingers tingle from the pressure I put on my palms. My right leg complains from having to carry all the weight. I sleep 10 hours a night and with a two hour nap in the day.

Lately, I’ve been cataloging all the things I know about my body, mostly in my head, sometimes on paper. I think what scared me most about having the surgery was that all my knowledge wasn’t available to the surgeons and nurses while I was anesthetized. Instead of my 29 years of encyclopedic body wisdom, they had my medical history in a chart, the blips on the monitors, and the signs “left” and “x.”