Moving is a dangerous occupation, and I have the highest regard for those in that business who manage not to injure themselves while moving other people’s things.
When I was packing up my mother’s house to move to my newly purchased house, I did a real number on my back. I took the pain as long as I could, continuing to pack boxes and shove them around. But the day I nearly passed out from the pain while pushing a shopping cart through Walmart, was the day I decided to see my chiropractor. It took weeks to get my back into shape, and I remember at one point, they taped me up with about a hundred strips of black adhesive tape and told me to keep it there.
Well, years later, Margaret and I decided to do some friends a favor by selling our worldly goods five months before we were due to depart the continent of Africa and move into their place. Our part of the rent made it possible for them to stay in their flat while they were back in their home country. Things seemed to be going fine, in that we got a lot of other people to carry the unsold things down the three flights of steps and up another two short flights to our new place. We moved on Thursday, and all was well. However, at some point on Saturday, I did something wrong.
At first, I just ignored the twinges from the inside of my right knee. These things often go away if you don’t pamper them. This time, I was pushing the shopping trolley (cart) through Nakumaat when my knee stopped moaning and began actively complaining and shouting at me. I decided it needed attention, so when we got home, I put it up and began keeping ice on it. Indeed, it was swelled up compared to my left knee, so something was wrong. Eventually, I found a support bandage in my medical stuff and started wearing that. I got some anti-inflammatory cream and started using that regularly. Steps became the bane of my existence! Going up or down aggravated my knee considerably, but I was still trying to sell of the last of our possessions, which were located on the top floor of the apartment block.
The flat we now called home provided a pair of crutches (from an earlier broken foot). I was glad to have the assistance, and used one crutch to get up and down steps without putting all my weight on my right leg. Between the crutch and the support bandage and the cream and the ice, I hoped all would soon be well. It wasn’t.
Two weeks after the move, we moved to a conference center for two months – thankfully with almost NO steps. I limped around the rather large expanses to get to meals and to teach my class, and stayed close to my room the rest of the time with my leg on a pillow. After a week of that, I decided I should see a proper doctor and find out what was wrong.
Margaret and I ventured out to the Coptic Hospital early on a Saturday morning. It is cheaper than other hospitals in town, but quite a good one. The traffic is less on Saturday, so one can actually get to the place.
First of all, one must get INTO the Coptic Hospital. There are two large gates, once for Entrance and one for Exit. It is good to arrive early because there is very limited parking. As with many successful businesses that have been around for a number of years, their success has meant they needed more buildings on the original parcel of land. As more buildings are put up, there is less and less parking. Such is the case with the Coptic Hospital.
I limped up the steps and went to the reception area. I had learned on a previous visit that my insurance from abroad would not be accepted, so I agreed to pay privately. Margaret and I had taken all our money with us to deal with this. Having signed in, I was soon called to go back to the nurse for my vital signs. That is when the real waiting started. The next desk to which I was sent had no person at it.
After rather a long several hours of waiting, we began to agitate at Reception for someone to come to that desk to move us along!
Finally, someone turned up, but I couldn’t see an orthopedist that day because I didn’t have an appointment. I opted to go to the emergency room. The doctor there was very nice, but knew almost nothing about swollen and painful knees. He sent me off for some tests, which were pretty inconclusive, but he did call in the orthopedist. Dr. Michael, had a look and thought something might be torn. He sent me off for an MRI. I had to go to a completely different place for that.
We drove to the appointed place and took in the order from the doctor. It took about half an hour and $160 to get the MRI done. We then went to a nearby restaurant and had a late lunch! By the time, the MRI was read, it was too late to get the results to Dr. Michael before he went home for the day – until Monday. By Monday, the traffic is such that getting to that particular location would entail a lot of fuel, time and frustration. So, we asked if the imaging office would send the results to the hospital. We were assured they would do that, no problem.
By this time, I’m convinced that I have a torn meniscus in my knee, despite the fact I never heard of a meniscus prior to that Saturday morning. The solution to that appeared to be arthroscopic surgery, a one-day affair, possibly as soon as the following Saturday. I was hopeful.
After limping for three weeks, the rest of my body had gotten into a twist. My neck and back and shoulders were a mess. So, I went to see my chiropractor to try to get straightened out again. The massage therapist was interested in my knee and at one point, asked why I was not using my crutch. “Well-l-l-l, it’s complicated,” I replied. He showed me the correct way to use the crutch and suggested that I use it to lessen the weight on the joint. Sigh.
Frankly, I didn’t want to let others see that I was having a problem – but pride does not make one’s knee feel any better. So, I put away my “image” and started using my crutch. At least most of the time I had no steps to ascend or descend, but when I did, I quickly caught on to the saying “Up with the good, down with the bad”. If I got that wrong, my knee told me about it in no uncertain terms!
On Wednesday, I finally got through to the doctor and asked about the results of the MRI. He glanced quickly at the results and said, “There is no problem. You should be fine in a week.” It didn’t feel like I would be fine in a week, but who knows!?
After three weeks, I was still not fine. In fact, in five weeks I was not fine. Finally on the 9th week after the injury, I went to a different doctor. He examined me carefully, looked over the MRI results and decided to try an injection. He said if that didn’t cure it, to let him know. However, after the injection, I was to stay off of it for a week – non-weight-bearing. Thankfully I had just finished teaching my last class.
As he prepared the injection, he said, “Now you will have to help me. When I get to the most painful place, tell me, and I’ll put it there.” I was so-o-o-o glad I was lying down when he did that. He stuck in the needle, wiggled it around and when I screamed loudly, he zapped it. Instant relief.
I went back to my room and stayed there for a day and a half before I started to go crazy. I tried getting to coffee break using both my crutches and only one foot. However, since they were not “under the armpit” crutches, but “weight on the hands” crutches, it was slow, difficult and definitely a one-time-only affair.
The original pain was gone, but there were other unhappy places on my knee. So, on Saturday, I phoned the doctor again and said it didn’t seem to be working. He immediately told me to come back in. He examined me and decided to inject two more places. I asked if it was a corticosteroid, but it wasn’t. It was medicine he had used in Germany. That is the only explanation I got, so I call it “The Magic Medicine from Germany”. We went through the “when I get to the most painful spot” routine, twice!
It seemed to work like a treat. He urged me not to do aerobic exercises for a while, but thought I would be fine. IF it didn’t work, the next option is to put my leg in a cast from ankle to thigh for six weeks. Now that is a threat if I ever heard one!
By Sunday, I could walk up steps pretty normally, but not down. By Tuesday, I could walk up and down. There were a few movements that my knee moaned about, but on the whole, it was pretty normal. Beware of normal!
On Friday, I was in the office and decided to check in the library books that had been used on the course. They were taking up someone’s desk, and the space was needed for a person. I started carrying the books around. My knee took exception to that and began to complain. I should have stopped immediately, but I didn’t. Eventually, it began to shout at me, and so I did stop.
Now, on Saturday, I’m back on the couch with my knee on a pillow, putting on anti-inflammatory cream and wondering about the ice. Maybe if I rest it enough, it will forget my mistake of Friday. I certainly hope so!
When I was packing up my mother’s house to move to my newly purchased house, I did a real number on my back. I took the pain as long as I could, continuing to pack boxes and shove them around. But the day I nearly passed out from the pain while pushing a shopping cart through Walmart, was the day I decided to see my chiropractor. It took weeks to get my back into shape, and I remember at one point, they taped me up with about a hundred strips of black adhesive tape and told me to keep it there.
Well, years later, Margaret and I decided to do some friends a favor by selling our worldly goods five months before we were due to depart the continent of Africa and move into their place. Our part of the rent made it possible for them to stay in their flat while they were back in their home country. Things seemed to be going fine, in that we got a lot of other people to carry the unsold things down the three flights of steps and up another two short flights to our new place. We moved on Thursday, and all was well. However, at some point on Saturday, I did something wrong.
At first, I just ignored the twinges from the inside of my right knee. These things often go away if you don’t pamper them. This time, I was pushing the shopping trolley (cart) through Nakumaat when my knee stopped moaning and began actively complaining and shouting at me. I decided it needed attention, so when we got home, I put it up and began keeping ice on it. Indeed, it was swelled up compared to my left knee, so something was wrong. Eventually, I found a support bandage in my medical stuff and started wearing that. I got some anti-inflammatory cream and started using that regularly. Steps became the bane of my existence! Going up or down aggravated my knee considerably, but I was still trying to sell of the last of our possessions, which were located on the top floor of the apartment block.
The flat we now called home provided a pair of crutches (from an earlier broken foot). I was glad to have the assistance, and used one crutch to get up and down steps without putting all my weight on my right leg. Between the crutch and the support bandage and the cream and the ice, I hoped all would soon be well. It wasn’t.
Two weeks after the move, we moved to a conference center for two months – thankfully with almost NO steps. I limped around the rather large expanses to get to meals and to teach my class, and stayed close to my room the rest of the time with my leg on a pillow. After a week of that, I decided I should see a proper doctor and find out what was wrong.
Margaret and I ventured out to the Coptic Hospital early on a Saturday morning. It is cheaper than other hospitals in town, but quite a good one. The traffic is less on Saturday, so one can actually get to the place.
First of all, one must get INTO the Coptic Hospital. There are two large gates, once for Entrance and one for Exit. It is good to arrive early because there is very limited parking. As with many successful businesses that have been around for a number of years, their success has meant they needed more buildings on the original parcel of land. As more buildings are put up, there is less and less parking. Such is the case with the Coptic Hospital.
I limped up the steps and went to the reception area. I had learned on a previous visit that my insurance from abroad would not be accepted, so I agreed to pay privately. Margaret and I had taken all our money with us to deal with this. Having signed in, I was soon called to go back to the nurse for my vital signs. That is when the real waiting started. The next desk to which I was sent had no person at it.
After rather a long several hours of waiting, we began to agitate at Reception for someone to come to that desk to move us along!
Finally, someone turned up, but I couldn’t see an orthopedist that day because I didn’t have an appointment. I opted to go to the emergency room. The doctor there was very nice, but knew almost nothing about swollen and painful knees. He sent me off for some tests, which were pretty inconclusive, but he did call in the orthopedist. Dr. Michael, had a look and thought something might be torn. He sent me off for an MRI. I had to go to a completely different place for that.
We drove to the appointed place and took in the order from the doctor. It took about half an hour and $160 to get the MRI done. We then went to a nearby restaurant and had a late lunch! By the time, the MRI was read, it was too late to get the results to Dr. Michael before he went home for the day – until Monday. By Monday, the traffic is such that getting to that particular location would entail a lot of fuel, time and frustration. So, we asked if the imaging office would send the results to the hospital. We were assured they would do that, no problem.
By this time, I’m convinced that I have a torn meniscus in my knee, despite the fact I never heard of a meniscus prior to that Saturday morning. The solution to that appeared to be arthroscopic surgery, a one-day affair, possibly as soon as the following Saturday. I was hopeful.
After limping for three weeks, the rest of my body had gotten into a twist. My neck and back and shoulders were a mess. So, I went to see my chiropractor to try to get straightened out again. The massage therapist was interested in my knee and at one point, asked why I was not using my crutch. “Well-l-l-l, it’s complicated,” I replied. He showed me the correct way to use the crutch and suggested that I use it to lessen the weight on the joint. Sigh.
Frankly, I didn’t want to let others see that I was having a problem – but pride does not make one’s knee feel any better. So, I put away my “image” and started using my crutch. At least most of the time I had no steps to ascend or descend, but when I did, I quickly caught on to the saying “Up with the good, down with the bad”. If I got that wrong, my knee told me about it in no uncertain terms!
On Wednesday, I finally got through to the doctor and asked about the results of the MRI. He glanced quickly at the results and said, “There is no problem. You should be fine in a week.” It didn’t feel like I would be fine in a week, but who knows!?
After three weeks, I was still not fine. In fact, in five weeks I was not fine. Finally on the 9th week after the injury, I went to a different doctor. He examined me carefully, looked over the MRI results and decided to try an injection. He said if that didn’t cure it, to let him know. However, after the injection, I was to stay off of it for a week – non-weight-bearing. Thankfully I had just finished teaching my last class.
As he prepared the injection, he said, “Now you will have to help me. When I get to the most painful place, tell me, and I’ll put it there.” I was so-o-o-o glad I was lying down when he did that. He stuck in the needle, wiggled it around and when I screamed loudly, he zapped it. Instant relief.
I went back to my room and stayed there for a day and a half before I started to go crazy. I tried getting to coffee break using both my crutches and only one foot. However, since they were not “under the armpit” crutches, but “weight on the hands” crutches, it was slow, difficult and definitely a one-time-only affair.
The original pain was gone, but there were other unhappy places on my knee. So, on Saturday, I phoned the doctor again and said it didn’t seem to be working. He immediately told me to come back in. He examined me and decided to inject two more places. I asked if it was a corticosteroid, but it wasn’t. It was medicine he had used in Germany. That is the only explanation I got, so I call it “The Magic Medicine from Germany”. We went through the “when I get to the most painful spot” routine, twice!
It seemed to work like a treat. He urged me not to do aerobic exercises for a while, but thought I would be fine. IF it didn’t work, the next option is to put my leg in a cast from ankle to thigh for six weeks. Now that is a threat if I ever heard one!
By Sunday, I could walk up steps pretty normally, but not down. By Tuesday, I could walk up and down. There were a few movements that my knee moaned about, but on the whole, it was pretty normal. Beware of normal!
On Friday, I was in the office and decided to check in the library books that had been used on the course. They were taking up someone’s desk, and the space was needed for a person. I started carrying the books around. My knee took exception to that and began to complain. I should have stopped immediately, but I didn’t. Eventually, it began to shout at me, and so I did stop.
Now, on Saturday, I’m back on the couch with my knee on a pillow, putting on anti-inflammatory cream and wondering about the ice. Maybe if I rest it enough, it will forget my mistake of Friday. I certainly hope so!
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