Let’s face it.  Things wear out. Like has happened to me, sometimes an item that is important to you just has to go. A while back I donned my favorite baseball cap on the way out the back door. Rita stopped me. “It’s time,” she said.   

“Time for what?” I asked. 

“Time to say ‘so long’ to that hat,” was her answer. “You can’t be seen in public with something like that.  Give it here,” she demanded with her hand out. 

When she stuffed it deep into the trash bin, a long-lost feeling. returned - when my mother told me it was time to part ways with my favorite blanket. I carried it with me everywhere. 

Apparently, more things are wearing out and have to go now. One of my two favorite knee joints is as tattered and torn as my ball cap was (may it R.I.P).  But, the process to replace a knee is more complicated than choosing a spare cap from a dozen extras in the closet.  I don’t care much what the new hinge looks like but hope the tailor can make it fit and feel like its predecessor.  

They say recovery time can vary, but having a ”coach” to guide the process is essential.  Evidently the coach’s job is to watch over you, making sure you behave, do what you are told and follow instructions - pretty much identical to marriage in a lot of ways.   

During a two-and-a-half-hour meeting last week to explain what can be expected after knee surgery, the instructors outlined the dos and don’ts to be enforced by my coach, Rita.  She perked up whenever ”pain” was declared an essential element to the recovery process.  During work as an orthodontist, I avoided the ‘P’-word like the plague.  Instead, I used “discomfort” when discussing what to expect.  I lost track of how many times I cringed when knee replacement instructors talked about “pain” following surgery.  

“Don’t worry, hon,” Rita told me, “I’ll see to it that you do what you have to do.”  Her look and comment triggered a vivid image of what happed after James Caan’s car accident in “Misery,” Stephen King’s 1987 book and later movie (1990).  Katherine Bates as Annie Wilkes ”coached” Caan’s convalescence when his legs were out of commission.

As you are reading this column today, I’m on my way to the hospital.  My Annie Wilkes will drive me home tomorrow to begin coaching my recovery. But, before leaving home, all duct tape and stray pieces of rope around the garage were gathered and hidden out of sight.  In addition, the sledge hammer was relocated to the bottom of the Souris River.  Saying goodbye to my worn-out knee might be more traumatic than giving up that favorite ball cap that was once an essential part of my existence. 

To be continued…