Make that I had been averaging 5-7 miles a day walking for years. As of mid-April, I've put my Fitbit aside. I'm walking a bit, but out of necessity, not for pleasure or exercise. And if I were to hazard a guess, my average daily walk is closer to 2 miles in total. (But who's counting? Not me, any longer.)
I was visiting my sister in Tucson when the first sign of impending doom appeared.
Although I had hydrated on the flight (plenty I thought: apparently not) and moved around (a couple of bathroom trips), when I got to Kath's I was experiencing leg pain. So I got in the spa and soaked up the warmth, and ordered compression socks for the trip home.
We were out walking on my next to last day when all of a sudden I could barely put any weight on my leg. We were not far from Kath's house, so I was able to drag back home, where Kath supplied me with a knee brace. (She has arthritis in her knee, as well, and is facing a knee replacement. Thanks, Nanny for gifting us with what in the family is known as the Trainor Kees!) I hobbled over to the spa for a good soak. And got me a collapsible cane at Walgreen's. I also called my doctor to schedule an appointment for the day after I got home.
Well, I did learn that people in airports are very kind to little old grey-haired ladies with canes. Unfortunately, I had to learn this by being a little old grey-haired lady with a cane. And so it goes. (Note: Most of my airport assistance was thanks to my sister Trish, my traveling companion.)
I got home late (10 or so) and made it up the front steps with my suitcase, relieved to have limped home and ready to seee my doctor the next day.
I have an upside down, two-floor condo. The first floor has my living room, kitchen, and second bathroom. Downstairs is where my den, office, bedroom, and main bathroom are. There are three ways to get downstairs: the steep, narrow, and winding staircase inside my unit; the broader, more gradual starcase in the communal area; and the building's ancient elevator.
Although I pay my full share for it (which is plenty: the elevator is 100+ years old), I rarely have any reason to use the elevator. But I really didn't want to schlepp my bag down the stairs, so I pressed the button for the elevator. When I couldn't hear it gearing up, I group texted the other residents to see if the elevator door was left open on one of their floors. Not here. Not here. Not here.
So I decided to carry my bag down. (Why I didn't unload it in the living room, carry the clothing down, and leave the damned suitcase on the first floor, I'll never know.)
They say when you tear a meniscus, you sometimes hear the pop.
Well, yes, yes that is the case.
Anyway, the hellzapoppin meniscus tear - as I learned after an initial x-ray, a later MRI, and a second x-ray - joined a bunch of other small tears, and arthritis galore in my left knee.
The ortho PA I met with told me that, at this point, there was no need for a knee replacement, but that given the extensive arthritis, the knee could give out at any time. He gave me some exercises, and told me to stop walking so much, but to gradually introduce walking back into my life. He also told me to come back if things went to hell, and I could get a cortisone shot which would probably enable me to put off surgery for a while anyway. (You can't get the shots indefinitely, as they destroy whatever there is around your old knee that holds the whole shebang in place.)
I then made an appointment with a physical therapist, and while gimping out to meet with her, I realized that it was no longer a matter of just the funky left knee. The arthritic right knee had decided to get in on the act.
Well, PT has been helpful. I do the exercises twice a day. And I've joined a gym, where I'm working twice a week with a trainer on strenghtening the quads and hammies, and doing a tiny bit on upper body strength, core, and balance.
The gym, HealthWorks - where my sister Kath is also a member and has been encouraging me to join for years - is great. The facilities are terrific. Extra points for being all-women (or non-binary). The trainer I'm working with, Correen, is a peach.
I have had to update my wardrobe, as I didn't want to embarrass my sister by showing up in twenty-year old stretchy capri workout pants from LL Bean and whatever ratty cotton tee-shirts I had sitting around. (Or which there is an abundance.) So now I have some very comfy joggers and complementary color tees, and while I can't compete with some of the super-fit young women in their shorts and midriff tops, I no longer look like Haystack Calhoun's sister. (May the gods of decency forgive me for ordering my gear from the execrable Amazon.)
The knees are improving.
I'm mostly walking to wherever I have to go - St. Francis House, the grocery store, PT, the gym, errands in the 'hood - and mostly without the cane or knee braces. Which I mostly carry with me, in case I need them on the way back.
Sometimes - if it's too damned hot, if I'm carrying a lot of groceries - I Uber.
When I get up from the couch or a chair, I sometimes hear creaking. This is not entirely new, but it's now a lot more frequent than it used to be - back in the days when I wore a Fitbit and averaged 5-7 mile a day.
Worse, when I do the exercises, I sometimes hear a crinkling noise. Straight out of a bowl of rice crispies. Snap, Crackle, and Pop.
It's crepitus, something I'd never heard of, but now it's my lived experience. And it's not, in fact, about old age. According to Cedars-Sinai, crepitus is:
The crackling, crunching, grinding or grating noise that accompanies flexing a joint.
And:
Even though "crepitus" comes from the Latin word for "creak" and has the same root as "decrepitude," its snap, crackle and pop sounds do not necessarily signify advanced age. The sound arises from air or other gases in tissue under the skin. For example, crack your knuckles and the microscopic nitrogen bubbles inside pop to attention.
Who knew? Even though I used to love to crack my knuckles, I didn't know there was a word for it.
But it's hard not to associate all the creaking, all the snap, crackle, and popping, all the pain-in-the-knee, with aging, with becoming - yikes! - decrepit.
I, Crepitus! Or, I guess, retrieving my long-ago Latin, I, Crepita!
I find myself increasing quoting the Stones these days: What a drag it is, getting old. But truly, you just have to laugh...(I do, anyway.)
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