Leg Dreams

I miss leg. Like, a lot. And I’ve missed leg for quite some time.

For those who've never read the funny story of how I got gimp'd while playing soccer, I give you this link. And no, “gimp'd” is not a new, more sadistic Ashton Kutcher show.  Sidebar: how wild of a show would that be? Instead of Demi getting dumped, she did the dumping and he gets so angry he convinces HBO to film him and his crew luring celebrities into traps and beating the shit out of them. (self high five!)

Just before Xmas I get some bad, but expected, news. Dr. Leg looks at me, then back and my MRI, and says, “You injured this a year and a half ago?" I nod. "Brad, he says. "I look at this and wonder, ‘How have you been living like this?’* You don’t have an ACL. Normally when people snap theirs, you can see remnants. But with you, there’s nothing. And usually people tear their Meniscus." He draws me a quick picture of the Meniscus and points circles the place where people usually tear it. "You flipped yours.” The second circle is much larger. 

Alright, I get it doc. I’m a badass. But what's nex–WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?! He frantically tries hiding the plastic knee joint model, but it's too late. Involuntary nap time. 

They cut me open on January 24^th and life was pretty good for 2 weeks. I was ahead of schedule with strength and range of motion and began walking sans crutches and brace 10 days out.  Life was looking up. Then one Tuesday I was in a rush to get the recycling out before my bus came and like a total asshole I tried some hop skip maneuver and FUCK! What the fuck was that? Searing pain in the hamstring area helped me conclude that it was my hamstring. You see, part of it was taken by that thieving jerk and repurposed into a new ACL. He made an incision, went up there with a reachy army thingy, snipped, stole, drilled, and installed. So my hammy was already weak, and I tweaked it something fierce. “It’s not the worst I’ve seen, but it’s up there,” said my physical therapist.

Do I get a ribbon? NO?!  How about a blood clot?

If you’ve ever torn your hamstring, you know it’s fucking painful; in my case, a lot more painful than the surgery. Unless I wanted a thousand hot needles to shoot up the back of my leg, I didn't move it because it needed to heal, which is precisely why I got the blood clot. Post-surgery appendage movement is apparently important so a blood clot doesn’t land in one (or more) of your veins. And since a clot can lead to death, it's kind of a big deal (but a bigger deal to me is how lame of a death that would be). So now I'm on blood thinners and a sexy compression sock is on me. 

But hey, I’m doing alright. Two weekends ago I went drunk biking. 

Now, some of you may be saying, "Brad, it's not a good idea to bike around at night, with high levels of blood thinning meds in your system, while under the influence of a liquid that both diminishes your coordination and thins your blood, thus increasing the chances of blah blah blahg I have A TINY WEINER!" Two things: 1) you're absolutely right, especially about the weiner bit and 2) see number 1. 

Anyway, as much as I like to write that I’m kicking life in the balls, living so long on a bum knee has not been fun. It’s been one.five years since I could do a slew of knee related activities (and there's a lot) without the worry it would pop and lock, sending it to bed for a few days. It would jostle and swell anytime I stepped wrong, anytime I spun or twisted, and anytime I jumped over a stanchion at a Rise Against concert because I couldn’t get floor tickets and I wanted to be on the floor. I'd tweak it every 3 weeks for so, a reminder of the "I can'ts" that lead me everywhere.

And now I got it fixed (trumpets and crash cymbals). I am thoroughly excited about this (crash cymbal falls to the ground and makes awkward spinning sound). Um, ahh, he he... sorry about that. Anyway, I've been so excited by this that I’ve done my fair share of dreaming about what I’ll do when I have a healthy leg (cue dreamy music and blurred focus)…

When my leg is betta, I will dance. I will dance so fucking hard you have no idea. I will line dance with a gay cowboys. I will swing dance with a random woman on the street. I will break dance naked on the wooden floors of my house and then swear up and down while rubbing ointment on my burns. My wood burns. THAT'S WHAT HE SA— Uh, oh. I've said too much. 

I will play drinking games that involve running. I will play drinking games that don’t involve running because I’m tired of running. I will pass out.

I will run after a departing train and make eye contact with a random beautiful woman as if she is the love of my life and I just made a massive mistake. I will mouth “I Love You” to her as the train pulls away from me, inciting a fight between her and her jealous boyfriend. I will wait patiently for our relationship to start through Missed Connections. “You ruined my life!” her post will begin. No I didn’t. I ruined his life. The best chapter of yours is about to begin.

When my leg is right as rain, I will hike. I will camp. I will rock climb. I will boulder. I will climb to the top of boulders, hike down from them, and have sex with 2 hot hiker/climber chicks in the rain. Yes, I will do this. It will be nice. AND THEN WE'LL WATCH HOCKEY! God, I love the outdoors.

This interruption is brought to you by Roommate, who enters the room while showing off all the awesome moves he can do with both of his good legs.

I will break Roommate’s knee.

I will karate chop a cop in the balls. I will surf on top of a shark. I will back-flip kick said shark in the balls. Oh, a shark doesn’t have balls on the outside of its body thus making said balls difficult to locate? Well, I’ll invent a shark with outside balls and motherfucking back-flip kick that fucking shark in its OUTSIDE-SHARK BALLS DON’T INTERRUPT ME! (clears throat) Where was I? What came before shark balls? Well, I know cop balls! But what came before any mention of balls in general?! Really?... (clears throat once, then again) Ahhh fuck it.

I will break into song in the middle of a crowded street. I will immediately regret my song choice because no, 80-year-old grandparents, I don't want to fuck either of you like an animal. 

I will play Twister. I will play Twister, in my house, without others and without clothes, just before Roommate gets home from work. Boom! Remember that rubbing it in shit? Gotcha, fucker!

I will write a public apology to my female roommate because I didn’t expect her to be right behind Roommate.

I will eat a salad.

I will run after the bus if I miss it. I will miss the bus just so I can run after it. I will join a sorority.

I will lose my gut by working out 4 days a week. I will devote one weekend to climbing a 14er with my sorority. I will take a shit on the top of that 14er . I will get kicked out of my sorority.

I will give myself a hug everyday. And by “hug” I mean hand job.

I will give nude modeling another shot. I will be a nude model inside. I will be a nude model outside. I will be arrested and charged as a sex offender. I definitely will not be a nude model outside.

I will build a bear at my local Build-A-Bear workshop. What do you mean "why?" Fuck you, why! I need a reason to build an adorable and cuddly bear? His name, Chester. His role, my nightly confidant: 

"And then she looked at me for like 2 straight seconds! What does that mean? Does that mean she wants to nibble on my bits? Or does it mean she was trying to figure out where the cereal was and she thought I was a stock boy? Whatever. (Brad hugs Chester) She's probably a bitch anyway." 

I will begin to draw inspiration from looking out the bus window. I will eat fried chicken. I will eat McDonalds. I will eat tire. And fence.

I will play Ultimate Frisbee. I will play Ultimate Stand On The Sidelines And Hold Back Puke While I Catch My Breath.

I will learn to laugh at myself. And I will learn to stop laughing at myself during funerals and other general death related occurrences like first learning someone's family pet died or while telling them I killed their family pet...

I keep reminding myself that things could be worse.

I had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Leg the other day. We managed to look at the photos they snapped during the surgery without vomit climbing up my word pipe. He held me and told me to be a big boy. I cried. Then he pointed out a few things about it while whispering, "It's gonna be alright." He admired his work and, once again, commented on my wearwithall. Then he had me lay on the table where he violently tested the strength and stability of the new ACL.

"Oh, that's great," he said while jarring my calf and quad back and forth. "That's really great." He literally did it about 3 more times before I blurted, "Alright, that's enough." He apologized, admitted that his fascination with knees could probably qualify as a mental illness, and said I'm right on track.

I can ride a bike outdoors in 1.5 months and in 2.5, I can make turns while running. This is all great news to me, because it means I will...

*My answer: I didn’t have health insurance. I injured it while I had a job, but got laid off soon after. Ya fucking make do. And I’m glad I did, otherwise I’d be $46,366 in the hole. THAT'S WHAT SHE SA— Fuck! Will I ever learn to use that properly? Huh, Chester? 


Click here to be rerouted to your nearest emergency room and/or to the humerus story about me smacking my knee up.