About eight or nine years ago, I fell on my knee on some ice in the first farm in Hebron. It was the worst pain I have ever known, and I felt and heard the crack in my knee cap.

I was alone on the farm then, and stark raving mad,  and I did not go to the doctor or a hospital as my helper on the farm begged me to do.

The pain was so blinding that I nearly fainted and I had to crawl into the farmhouse on my hands and knees on some slate rocks. I slept right on the floor or tried.

As the time passed, the pain eased and I found I could walk and write and do my chores, I suspected there was a break in there in that kneecap and I think I feared dealing with it.

I had a lot on my plate and there was no one close enough to tell me what a jerk I was (I don’t have that problem now when I do something stupid, which is often.)

The knee never really heeled and it left with a limp and occasional pain when I stepped on the wrong step or on uneven or rocky ground. But I could always walk and did walk.

I just learned to live with it. Lately, that knee has been talking to me, and not in a nice way.  It has been telling me I might soon have to break my pledge to keep my natural parts for all of my life is possible.

I was getting sharp and blinding burst of pain when my knees moved in a certain way, they felt weak and unsteady sometimes.  I just attributed it to age, a dangerous thing to assume

I finally did what I should have done years ago and went to see an orthopedist today, he was recommended by my female nurse-practitioner, who has taken some trouble to get to know me. She said he was the best around.

I know most orthopedists are males, it’s kind of jock practice, they get the injured athletes as well as the old men with failing legs.

He has a wonderful reputation and I was glad he would see me quickly. These past few days, I was preparing myself for a knee replacement, I’m closing in on that age, and the pain was persuading me to do something.

So I went to see my doctor in Saratoga Springs, the home of all of my doctors now. Dr. Gainor was terrific, but he was definitely a male doctor. He burst into the examining room, looked right at the x-ray board (I had just had X-rays taken).

There were no niceties of any kind, no questions about me that did not relate to the knee, no chat about the weather, or how the Pandemic was changing medicine, no curiosity about me or my life. “Let’s see what’s going on with your knee, ” he said, glancing at the X-rays of both of my knees. The other knee wasn’t so happy either.

“Do I need a knee replacement?,” I asked. “No, not at all,” he said, looking at me for the first time and smiling. “You are years away from that, if ever. You might just make it all the way…” he paused, but we both knew what he was thinking.

It depended on how long I lived.

He saw the bad knee right away, arthritis from my kneecapping on the ice had spread front and back.  It threw my walking off balance and would affect the other knee.

He pushed my knees up and down. And the muscles had stiffened up, perhaps due to the arthritis. He thought the other kneed should last for years and years as well.

I was pretty happy, even though I wanted my orthopedist to be my friend. I want anyone who is a surgeon treating me to be my friend. It wasn’t going to happen.

What he recommended was a cortisone shot in each knee, probably every six months or so. And some anti-inflammatories and a couple of months of physical therapy to get the muscles loose again, I had been tightening up.

He said another appointment wasn’t necessary – I was a bit hurt – but I also saw the significance of that. He said I should call the office when the knee started hurting again and he would see me.

Male doctors don’t really need to practice social isolation. They distance themselves from their patients pretty easily.

I told him one of my fingers seemed to have arthritis too, and I wondered if he looked at fingers. Oh no, he said,  we have a hand specialist, I just do legs. Tell the girls out front you want to see him. But I didn’t. I need some time between cortisone shots.

Although he was all business and showed absolutely no interest in me other than in my knees, I liked him. He knew his stuff and was direct. And the bottom line is that my knees like me again, and do not hurt, at least for a while.

The cortisone shots stung a bit, easily worth the tradeoff. I still have all my original parts and may keep them for good (if you don’t count the heart, which they took out and refurbishes.

I was both exhilarated and hurt. that he didn’t want another appointment. I mean, it had hurt, and quite a bit. But the male doctors are like that, they are brisk and businesslike, they get it done with as few words as possible. I think they feel it is safer that way.

My knee stopped hurting almost instantly, and I realized the curious feeling I felt was the absence of pain when I walked out of his office for the first time in my memory.

The office experience was strange, almost prison-like. I think when Dr. Gainor saw me, all he saw was a knee, just as a former cardiologist only saw pictures of my heart.

The state health department had mandated that only 10 patients at a time could be inside, and they had to be sitting at least 10 six feet apart from one another. The waiting room was full of mostly older people with masks, and a  few young skiers in casts.

Where, I wondered, had they skied? But I couldn’t get close enough to ask them.

I like people who might cut me open to get to know me a bit but the bottom line is that my heart is still working for me

A friendly nurse was sitting outside the building with a thermal thermometer.

She asked me a bunch of questions and took my temperature. Inside I had to wear a mask and so did the receptionist, talking to each other was like we were in a Marx Brothers skit.

“What?,” I kept saying. “Excuse me,” she kept mumbling through the mask. When she gave me a filled out the sign-in card, my name was spelled “Jenk Cetz.”

We both laughed, she said she would get the right name off of my insurance card when things quieted down. I can’t wait to call for the next appointment. If it’s in the system, it will live there for a while

Inside the examining rooms, the nurses – all women – were very friendly. One even complimented me for my blue glasses, I blushed, I think, and was pleased.

When I first came into the examining room, I asked her how long it took to recover from a knee replacement and she pointed to a poster on the wall.

It read “One day knee and hip replacements, come in the morning, go home after lunch.” Hmm, I thought, no reason to get to know one another. Things really are changing.

No wonder Dr. Gainor didn’t want to chat with me. I was small stuff. The surgery on my knee would have been about as intense as having a root canal, maybe easier.

On the way home, driving in my snappy new hybrid car (I’ve spent $20 on gas this month), I stopped at a place Maria and I love called Saratoga Apple. I bought fresh asparagus (I was cooking scallops and asparagus) and apples and oranges and fresh-baked oatmeal cookies.

I got some foot cream to rub on Maria’s tired feet, and some hard cider and I bought her three very beautiful flowers for her studio.

I called Maria to share the news: “Hey,” I said. I wanted to suggest we celebrate by going out, but she said she was busy, and besides, none of the restaurants we like were open yet.

She is in creative land, “I’m happy for you,” she said. “I’m hungry.” Apple donuts are on the way.

I thanked my knees in the car for hanging in there with me. When I walked up the back steps, it didn’t hurt at all. Thanks Dr. Gainor, you did what you need to do and that’s good enough for me.

I feel whole.