She had a knee

Sports is often the location where good grammar and vocabulary go to die. I am almost certain the devolution of regardless into irregardless happened there, as well as the execrable “pro-active” (as if active is not, what, active enough?). It happens when managers, athletes (or announcers) seek to make an intelligent comment. They want to sound more refined, and it leads to atrocities against the English language. Sometimes the malaprops are humorous additions: “GI-normous” probably got started this way, as did the tendency to add the prefix “Super” to anything and everything (note, the first Super Bowl wasn’t even called that!).

When an athlete got injured, people would say “she broke a leg” or “he pulled his hamstring.” Somehow using an action verb got to be too difficult, so today they say “he has a groin” or “she had a knee” meaning not that they are in possession of such things (usually two), but that they have an injury to said part. But I’m not here to further dissect sports English (I know you’re relieved).

My dear wife Judy “had a knee.” Friends will remember (back in February) I blogged about our experience with her knee pain, visits to the doctor, MRI, Ultrasound, ultimate diagnosis (and this is a direct quote, “she’s weird” but “there is nothing wrong with her knee that we can see”) and recovery through rest and anti-inflammatory medications. Given the doctors could find nothing to operate on, she went about life as before, but any attempt at exercise met with quick pain and swelling, relieved only by rest and medication. Rinse & repeat. For weeks. We finally settled on her doing nothing but stretching and mobility exercises.

In March, while visiting our daughter in Cincinnati, Judy heard a loud “pop” in her knee (followed by a sharp pain) as she walked up the stairs. She was down for the count for several days, and only barely recovered enough to avoid a wheelchair for the return trip to Mexico. But we were facing (oft-delayed) trips to Europe, Indiana, and Oaxaca, so what to do? Judy decided to gut it out, walking as much as she could, resting when she could, and hoping to make it to July when she could go back to the doctor with the possibility of a new diagnosis.

And gut it out she did. Complaining in our family is part of the usual conversation. One is not only allowed to kvetch, one is encouraged to do so. As I learned in the Army, an officer really worries only when the troops stop complaining. But pain is entirely a different matter. We have a legendary disdain for pain. It’s not that we don’t feel it; oh, we do. It’s that we choose not to acknowledge it. My dad once fixed a dental problem at home with a rasp. My daughter once swept the floors with two broken arms (hairline fractures, but the story grows taller on down the line). I rejected twilight anesthesia for shoulder surgery as a teen so I could watch it. When I went to the emergency room for a ceramic shard stuck in the top of my foot (Safety tip: no ceramic items in the shower!), I complained that the ER doctor was “fishing around in there!” He handed me the forceps and said “then you do it.” I did. So with a lot of wincing, Judy made it to July.

Now she had swelling and pain, and the new MRI confirmed a tear in the knee meniscus. Was it always there? Probably not. Was it so small it was missed? Maybe. Most likely, it was something less than a tear that was just waiting for the right kind of motion to rip. Presto, we had a surgery date for Hospital Américas in Guadalajara.

Hospital Américas is what we would call an outpatient surgery clinic. It’s a small facility stuck between malls, hotels, and some large hospitals near the Colón glorieta in midtown. We had a 7:00 am appointment, so we stayed at the nearby Hilton Midtown the night before. We even did the day before up right by going to brunch at Porfirio’s, one of Guadalajara’s best restaurants.

Judy went in at 8:30 and was out a little after 10:00 am. Surgery went well. A stitch in the meniscus, a little shave for a ligament, a nip-n-tuck in some “clicky” tissue. We owed the hospital $11000 MXP (aapprox $550 USD) at departure, but we didn’t pay the surgeon until a few days later. His bill ran $35000 MXP or about $1750 USD. Judy is home and resting comfortably, already walking some with the help of a walker. It will take several more days for all the effects of surgery to wear off.

As the person accompanying the patient, and therefore completing all the necessary paperwork, I admit it was a bit daunting. Mexican medical bureaucracy is no different from bureaucracy anywhere: there are forms to fill out, disclaimers to sign, bills with “medicalese” to decipher, rules to comply with, and everything is in written or spoken Spanish. For example, the Hospital Américas computer system insisted Judy must have four names (as is common in Mexico), but she has only three. So they substituted my first name for her third name in the system. Does it matter? No. Was it a cause of momentary confusion? Yes. The woman in billing wasn’t sure what to do with an American credit card, so they charged me an extra 5% fee. Could I have argued about it? Yes. Was it worth it, when the alternative meant finding an ATM and taking out a wad of cash? No. In the end, we got good, friendly, and competent medical service at what I thought was a bargain price.

And Judy may be ready for the Chivas season; the way they’re scoring goals, she couldn’t hurt their chances.