On the Edge With Ibex

Mountain Goat, Mountain Nope.

Today, I drove over an hour to the UVA Orthopedics Center to have another cortisone shot put in my left knee. I am not fond of needles or any kind of painful medical procedures. But, my knee has been giving me trouble since I was 22 years old, always aching when it rains, becoming hard to stand on for long periods, and almost giving out at times when I overdo it. Finally, this year, my knee has decided it can no longer be quieted with simple over-the-counter pain killers. In fact, it’s not even appeased by the prescription ones.

When I broke out my grandfather’s cane, I figured it was time to get serious about seeing a specialist. As it turns out, I have severe arthritis due to an old zoo injury. For this reason, my specialist tells me if a joint shows signs of arthritis, then any kind of surgery should be an absolute last resort. In fact, surgery on arthritic areas may not work at all, because opening up the area kick starts more severe arthritis.

That news didn’t really upset me as much as it might have. It will always have to be a diagnosis of life or death before I will voluntarily allow any kind of surgery. I have stood beside far too many animals in surgery as a vet tech that I know even the simplest surgeries can quickly become dangerous.

While gimping about town with a cane, gritting my teeth most of the time, I am learning that there are two kinds of humans in my town, those who understand chronic pain and show empathy and compassion, and those who could give a crap less. The latter just want to shove you out of their way for walking too slow. There isn’t much in between, though I will admit that the cane is a good tool to show me who I might like to get to know and who to avoid.

But, this whole process of needing help is all very frustrating. Care givers make the worst patients. I tell myself it’s good that I am learning first-hand how it feels to be treated like a problem everywhere I go, or as less than because I need a cane. This will help me be more empathetic to my elderly relatives when they are moving at a snail’s pace, right? But, someone like so many of us with far too much on her plate, I struggle not to be seriously angry at the world by the end of each day.

It occurred to me at some point that I ought to place a good bit of my anger squarely where it belonged, at the asshole male ibex, an African mountain goat named Adam, who injured me in the first place. I looked for and found a grainy old photo of him (shown above) and uploaded it to my phone. It’s now where I can easily glower at it when my knee is particularly painful or I’ve needed the cane to hobble around for another day.