A Year Ago Today

I injured my knee on an eighteen-mile run and have yet to resume the activity with any consistency. Now I know it was only a matter of time before that knee folded. Nevertheless, it's been a long, frustrating 365 days with lingering soreness from the operation and gnawing doubts that I'll run again. But there's no direction but forward. Much writing, fleshing out on old story. When I finish this one, I'll double back and polish two shorter pieces, hopefully submitting them this week. Happy Labor Day. Whatever you do, don't celebrate by working...or rioting as it disrupts barbecues. h/t: Bolshevism

Hospital Cafe

While it appears I'm in a hospital, this is actually a station at the Hospital Cafe, a Hollywood eatery that aims to simulate a medical dining experience. You lie in bed with an IV pumping you full of drugs, and eat Jello-o and dried chicken while watching Hawaii 5-0 reruns. Ginger ale is served in a short plastic cup. For an additional fee, your waitress-practitioner will speak English, though at the level of a Saigon bar girl. ("You likee pillow, G.I.?") Actual minor surgery is available, but must be booked in advance as the doctors fly up from Trinidad. You leave the Hospital Cafe drained in fluids and cash, but ultimately feeling less than when you entered. The Hospital Cafe. Institutional food at a Five Star price.

Airborne

Busy writing that short story. I must always remember the reader - picky bastards. Too many characters or too much information triggers the Snooze button.

Whenever I feel sorry for myself about running, something happens to snap me out of it. I'll visit my friend K's blog or stumble upon something like this.

h/t: Hot Air

Orthopedic News

Had a nice talk this morning with my HMO-supplied orthopedist. While only giving me a fifty-percent chance of ever running marathons again, he gave me a 100-percent chance of knee deterioration if I do nothing.

So it looks like I'll be opting for arthroscopic surgery on the knee. They'll "bleed" the knee above the "pothole,"  filling it with what-will-become fibrocartliage. While not as strong as organic cartilage, there's a chance it could close said pothole nicely, allowing me to race into my dotage. (Not far.)

There's physical therapy and months of EZ walking and light running. But by then, I should know if the pothole can withstand marathon pounding. 

Ahh, well, there. No more moping about. A direction. A risk. Life. Procrastination. Just a little. I'll call 'em Monday and set it up.