Old Ladies Can’t Jump

Don’t you love those photos you see on your social media feeds of people joyfully jumping up in the air?  It just looks like so much fun and there seems to be such joy in it.

A couple of years ago when Ernie and I were on vacation in the Outer Banks and were out for a walk, we found ourselves on a pier that jutted out into the bay.

“Let’s take a couple of ‘jumping in the air‘ photos,” I exclaimed!

With that, I art directed Ernie into the middle of the pier and told him to jump.  He did a few different jumps beautifully as I snapped away with my phone camera.

“Ok,” he said.  “Your turn.”

We switched places and I did a couple of jumps.  Nothing fancy. Just straight up arms and legs akimbo, big smile on my face.

“Ya got it,” I asked?

“I need a couple more,” he answered.

I decided to improvise at that point and instead of jumping straight up, I kicked my legs out to the side, knees bent.

A tenth of a second later, when my feet hit the pier, my knee was not having it, and instead of holding me upright, collapsed with a sharp pain whereupon I crumpled like a rag doll, albeit one crying out in agony.

Ernie came rushing over.  I wasn’t quite sure what happened, other than my knee gave out and it hurt like hell.  It’s worth mentioning that this is the same knee that I had the torn meniscus from the skiing accident 30 years ago which is covered in a previous blog, as you may recall.

My first thought was actually blissful thanks that I fell squarely on the pier and did not fall off into the bay.  Hey.  I’m all about silver linings don’t you know?

Ernie pulled me up and we discovered that I could not put any weight on the knee. Ernie walked with me a bit of the way, but we realized we were far from the house and I would not be able to walk back.  He had to leave me to go get the car.

As I stood by the road, leaning up against a fence, not putting pressure on that leg, I started to feel like I needed to go to the bathroom stat.  It felt like forever waiting for Ernie and suddenly I couldn’t hold off any longer.  The risk of an FI (IYKYK) was quite high at that point. The house that I was in front of was having construction work done and I asked the workers if I could use the bathroom.  They pointed to the porta potty.  Hey.  When nature calls, she must be answered and she isn’t fussy about the conditions.  I was just grateful it was there and available.  Silver linings, remember?

Ernie finally came back for me.  He propped me up on the couch, got me an Advil and started packing up our stuff.  We had planned to leave the next day but figured we’d might as well hit the road that day.  Because who doesn’t want to drive in a car for 8 hours with a throbbing knee?

I had to break the news to Ernie that I needed to go to an Emergency Clinic before we hit the road.  That the pain was so bad I was afraid I might have broken something.  Ernie is from the school of Unless You Are Dying You Don’t Go to the Doctor (he almost lost an eyeball from a detached retina following that school’s curriculum, but will save that for another blog).  So, it took some convincing that I needed to go and wasn’t driving 8 hours without getting it checked out first.

Turned out nothing was broken but that I had a torn ACL.  They put me in the most ridiculous brace I had ever seen.  It went from thigh to ankle.  They got me some crutches.  And away we went.  You haven’t experienced fun until you’ve ridden in a car for 8 hours with your leg in a giant brace.

Fast forward to the visit with the orthopedic doctor back home.

“What happened,” the doctor asked? “Playing tennis? Jogging? Pickleball?

“Umm, not exactly,” I said. “I was jumping.”

“Jumping,” he asked?

“Yeah, you know just jumping up in the air for a photo,” I answered.

You could see he was trying hard not to laugh.

Next questions were around how physically active I was or wasn’t.  Did I play tennis, ski, or otherwise engage in a lot of physical activities?

Uh, that would be a not really, or in reality, just a you know, a no.

“Ok,” he said, “Well, then at your age, if you are not into a lot of physical activities like that, our recommendation is to not operate on the torn ACL.”

There it was.  At your age.  Dang.  What are we? Some kind of second-class citizens where unless we are Serena Williams or Lindsey Vonn, we don’t qualify for critical medical care?  If I was young, regardless of my level of physical activity, they’d operate.  You know, you have your whole life ahead of you, so it’s worth our time and effort.  But at your age? And you are a sloth, to boot? Fahgeddaboutit.  We’ll just send you to physical therapy, tell you to wear a brace if you ever go hiking, and just watch yourself, maybe don’t do any more jumping.

And here we are, three years later. The knee is pretty tricky.  It acts like it’s all good, doing its job like it’s supposed to.  But then out of nowhere, say if you are dancing at a wedding, it springs one on you and with a tweak says, “Oh no you don’t.  You are having way too much fun. Time for you to sit down old lady.”

But. I have a knee, even if it’s a bit wonky.  I can do the basics.  I am not really missing out on life because I can’t jump or play pickle ball. 

Old ladies can’t jump.  But they can find the silver linings.