And . . . we're out . . .

. . . and about - our inaugural walk on a surface not manufactured by human hands since the señor acquired a new knee.  That makes it sound a bit like something he ordered it via Amazon . . . if only, but as we know, the medical profession, in its infinite wisdom, has evolved a process to replace failing human joints that seems a bit on the miraculous side to me; at the same time, it has become so commonplace that it's akin to Henry Ford's assembly line clacking parts together and sending the completed bodies out the door.

So, with outpatient surgery three weeks in the rear-view mirror, we were off to slightly warmer climes in the Verde Valley for our maiden voyage.  Our objective was a State park in its infancy.  It is indeed new-born, and to my awareness, very little heralded.  

Somewhere or another, I had spied a notice that the great state of Arizona was opening its latest state park over the mountain from us; the Rockin' River Ranch seemed like the perfect place to try out the señor's mobility, while offering me the opportunity to get outta Dodge near my favorite stream of water, the Verde River.

Endless delays . . .

In the same way that we managed to put off and put off Chris' knee surgery, the powers-that-be have only just now opened the Rockin' River to the public, despite that seven million dollars of a conservation fund was used to purchase the 209-acre property way back in 2008.  It was slated to open to the public in 2018, but affairs of government prevented that plan, and then . . . well, we know what happened in 2020.

At any rate, we wandered our way south of Camp Verde on Salt Mine Road until the goal was attained: a day-use-only property with primitive dirt paths that lead variously along the river near its confluence with West Clear Creek and/or through the high desert chaparral.  Gravel pads here & there sport picnic tables offering views of the Verde through the dense & tangled riparian vegetation.

 

Huge gnarled cottonwoods and sycamores share status as the venerable denizens of the Verde's shoreline, while slender willows and their ilk crowd together beneath the overhead spread, and limit access to the river's edge.

I heard & watched the approach of two canoeists, colorful in contrast to the drab still-leafless thick vegetation.  They were quickly past as I glimpsed them through an open patch, moving rapidly in the receding, but still flood-stage waters.

 We saw flood debris in branches impressively far overhead; the river's flow was much reduced from that stage, but was still far out of its banks.

In accordance with medical & physical therapist advice, we did not overdo our jaunt, but I was pretty impressed with my pard's finesse while traversing gravely downslopes.

With a clear view from behind, it was easy to note the contrast between the straightened left leg and the still-bowed right one, soon to have its own procedure.

Obsession .  . .

Having recently begun to dabble with acrylic painting, I find that I am even more obsessed with the landscape around me.  Previously, my interest was confined to how to convey the world photographically; that view has been combined with how I might paint what I am seeing.  It equates to noticing nuances and details that I might before have seen in a more overall sense.

We found the surrounding mountains, Squaw Peak in particular, still spotted with snow, not to the extent on our side of the county, but more than I expected.

 

With our release from surgery aftermath ending, we called a halt at an unusual sight along the way.  There in the dirt alongside an unremarkable crossroad, curiosity demanded that we stop to discover what was up with a multi-hued cart topped by a large bright umbrella.  

 

"Fruta Picada" was emblazoned on the cart's front.  Utilizing my sometimes-handy computer/phone, I found that the interesting Mexican street vendor in that unlikely place would probably be offering something in the way of cut-up fruit.

Although the young man spoke little English and I spoke little Spanish, I did learn that his name was Daniel.  It required no language at all to see that he was a master with a very sharp knife.  His ice-filled cart carried a variety of tropical fruit and cucumbers, which he was incredibly adept at chopping into pieces.  He quickly filled a large clear plastic cup with the pieces, and ceremoniously added chamoy (a sauce used in Mexican cuisine), a red spice and lime juice.  The result is a savory, salty, sweet fruit cup that I have decided might be an acquired taste.

It was an absolute delight to watch him at work; I can't wrap my mind around how someone could become that adept and quick without losing fingers in the process.  He was quite the showman!

Doo Dah, Doo Dah, Doo Dah Knee

Left or right, they were both shot, so the decision of which of the señor’s knees to replace first was a mere flip of the coin; however, it was a very long road getting to that point.

First, there was the finally admitting that something needed to be done.  Oddly, for quite a spell I noticed that Chris’ legs were bowing to an alarming degree.  Don’t get me wrong, despite that he is a dude, having ridden horses only very nominally in his life, he always had bowed legs.  I sometimes wondered if he had had rickets in his younger years, but that seemed unlikely given that he was raised in a household where vegetables and fruits were commonly on the menu (yes, yes, I know I have sometimes opined that he was raised by wolves, but I am fully acquainted with his birth family, and none of them have long slavering snouts).

After the admitting, there followed the hemming & hawing, the procrastination, the endless discussions about what, where & when.

Choices . . .

At (way too) long last, an appointment with the knee doc was made.  We had a better acquaintance with the orthopedic office than one prefers, what with rotator cuff and tib/fib dislocations, but in this case, familiarity did not breed contempt, so off we went to hear the verdict - choices.

We could . . . and we did . . . try steroid injections, hoping for a miracle; however, relief was attained but short-lived.  To give full credit, the surgeon's office provides some very stylin' duds for the injection process.

We then upped our game and shot (pardon the expression) for the gel injections.  Once again, the anticipated miracle eluded us.  More hemming & hawing, more procrastination, more endless discussions until we clearly had to do something.  Chris was becoming far too well acquainted with the art of sitting down, whilst I was chomping at the bit.

Because the afore-mentioned h & h had gone on for such a protracted period of time, once we accepted that surgery was on the horizon, we were anxious to be done with it.  That meant that we would travel to Goodyear for the deed, only because we could get ‘er done a month earlier than remaining in Prescott.

But first (yes, again), we needed to go through a procedure that uses CO2 to numb the knee’s sensory nerves.  Considering the pain involved in so-called knee replacements, numbing nerves seemed to be a jolly good idea.

I was interested in the process (and what a process it was!); fortunately, the technician (for want of a proper understanding of her actual title) was generous with her time & talent, explaining everything.  As usual, I had many questions, and after all, it wasn’t my leg that was being repeatedly violated by that three-needle contraption.

She utilized an ultrasound scan to locate the nerves that were to be deadened, marked them with what appeared to a Sharpie (medical grade, no doubt) and then proceeded to inject CO2 along the path of each one.  It was a lengthy process, but evidently not a painful one.  The good news was that it alleviated the pain somewhat prior to surgery.

 

 

 

We hem & haw . . .

 
At long last, our appointed day arrived - 11:30 a.m. on a Friday.  But first, more hemming & hawing.  Should we go down the night before in case of a traffic bollox, and/or should we stay there the night after?  A person would think we had never made a decision before in our relatively long lives.  I will spare us all the back & forths before arriving at a final decision.  Suffice it to say that it involved making reservations, changing reservations and cancelling reservations.

I insisted that we avoid I17 and go the “back” way.  As always when I near a city, I devolve into endless outrage, complaints and just general whining.  In this case, I was horror-stricken with the complete destruction of what I remember as pristine desert country as Phoenix & its minions have sprawled obscenely across the landscape.  Okay, we know how I feel about that, and it ain’t good, so back to the señor and his issue.

We arrived the night prior to surgery at a motel nearly across the street from the surgical center (Did I mention that knee replacement is an outpatient thing - no need to be lollygagging around in a hospital), and next to approximately one thousand square miles of brand spanking new & grotesque buildings destined to be warehouses/airplane hangars/?, similar to many other one thousand square miles of other grotesque warehouses/airplane hangars/?.  And we thought I was through with my tirade . . . 

I breakfast; he doesn't . . .

Of course the señor has to do the “nothing to eat or drink after midnight” dance, which does not deter me from cruelly eating a full breakfast complete with coffee right in front of him.  He maintained his usual non-disclosing expression; however, I don’t know what he may have been plotting.  In my defense, I cut it a bit short and did not at any time act as if I were savoring the flavors of our favorite - crispy bacon.

With the appetite of one of us sated, we arrived across the street and were greeted with the usual stack of paperwork to complete before we proceeded to wait, do something, wait, do something, wait . . . well, you get the picture.  During some of the “do somethings”, my presence was tolerated, and during others, I was banished to the surgical waiting room.  I was allowed to visit after certain preparations were complete.

The number of waits interspersed with “do somethings” was so astonishing that I never did quite figure out when they actually did the surgery.  Suffice it to say that we were the final procedure of the day, and the nurses (wonderful every one!) were ready to embark upon their weekend activities.

I wait, not very well . . .

Before continuing my saga, I will back up to my activities during the “do something” times when my presence was not only frowned up, but positively declined.  I suppose we could say that I am not particularly adept at sitting around for any length of time.  I did have a compelling book with me (thank you, Ann) and I did read while whiling away the time alone in that room.  On two occasions, I was joined briefly by two men, and I was able to extract partial biographies of each of them.

I liked the message on this bit of artwork: "Keep calm & dive in" . . .

. . . and then I spied this message out on a small adjoining enclosed patio, so I thought I would further distract myself from waiting by going out to take a photo.  “Back . . . in the . . . Game”.  

Yes, we were on our way to getting "Back in the game".  Photo accomplished, and lovely to be outside, but the roar of traffic just over the wall was terrible, so I thought I’d go back in to read a bit.

Oops!  What in the Sam Hill!  I was locked out!  And there was nary a person in sight in that waiting room that looked more & more inviting as I peered longingly into it through the heavy glass door.  

 

A few more futile attempts at that door latch, nope, definitely locked.  Shades of Laurel & Hardy - “Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into” - too bad there was no one there on whom to blame my dilemma.

I knocked a few times, pointless: that thick glass muffled my feeble efforts.  I began to search for an escape route, but weaseling my way over and through that gate seemed like an exercise in futility.  

 

Ah ha, idea balloon: I had my cell phone in my pocket, and after a spell, I came up with the name of the surgical center, and gave them a call - problem solved . . . but not so fast.  It was an area-wide answering service, not the specific facility that had done me wrong.

No matter, she assured me she would alert those folks who were safely inside that I was alone & lonely outside and wanted to join them.  Problem solved . . but not so fast.  

Still, no one came to my rescue . . . that was when I commenced to kick at that dad-blasted door with exceeding vigor coupled with some frustration and mixed with a tad of anger.  Kick kick kick - it did create a quite satisfying commotion, but still I remained trapped.  Additional kick kick kick, increasing in strength, because really, what did I have to lose at that point.

Okay, that did the trick . . . medical personnel to the rescue.  Perhaps I was just the tiniest bit too forceful when I suggested that if they were going to have a self-locking door, they might want to post a notice regarding said circumstance.

It was not too long afterward that the situation was remedied with this:

 

I learned afterward the reason my SOS phone call did not summon assistance: Instead of calling to tell those nice nurses they had an old lady trapped on the patio, she sent them a nice email, which of course no one saw because they were doing what nurses in surgical centers do - looking after patients.

We escape . . .

During the times that I was wandering, reading, interviewing the only two other “waiters” who shared the room with me briefly, getting locked out, and wishing I had brought something to eat (note to self: always carry a granola bar to events such as this), the señor was undergoing various procedures prior to, during, and after his knee replacement, until finally I was ushered into his cubby to hear the various things about after-care, important things, most of which I forgot (perhaps I can blame the hunger pangs).

More folderol followed when we blew that pop joint and headed out to find food.  There was something he said about going a particular direction because that’s where the historical district was.  Right then, I should have suspected it was the anesthesia talking, but oh no, the lure of history is strong.  I came to my senses in a short while, but it was already too late: he was sick, and I was without a good place to stop.  To prevent any upchucking in the truck cab, I scooted as far out of the driving lane as I could and waited it out.  When traffic got too heavy and fast coming up behind me, I cavalierly ordered him to hang his head out the open window and do what he must.

Providence carried us back to the motel without mishap, well almost; the card key ceased working, I was not able to get him back into the room.  Away I loped to the office, quite some distance off, to have the little plastic card rebooted, soothed with lullabies, or otherwise made operable.

Huge sigh of relief: surgery’s over; he was in the room, and I was off on the hunt for sustenance in the form of his requested hamburger.  

After another restless night, I packed us up and got us back up the hill to home.  Sayonara to the city, and greetings to home with its surrounding snow-dusted mountains.

I take the blame for some of our foolishness, but Chris gets full credit for being deranged enough to play keyboard for two church services on Sunday, a mere day & a half after new knee surgery.