The Busted Knee, The New Knee, & Conspiracy Theories

My Dad is recovering from knee surgery. Time and age had stripped away the remaining cartilage in his knee (technically, time and age done gone and vaporized the "meniscus", but what's a teeny orthopedic detail?). The surgery was a success, and now his left knee contains some tidily arranged cobalt chromium alloy and plastic, all held together with bone glue.

My Dad is recovering nicely. I also now forgive the surgeon for repeatedly calling me "Dear" during the final pre-op appointment. During this appointment my Dad, never one to miss a chance to articulate his fervent belief that all Democrats everywhere are mostly responsible for the global economic meltdown, and wholly responsible for the current state of "godlessness" in society, managed to insert a wily verbal slam against President Obama when the surgeon casually mentioned Medicare. His comment was poppycock to the max, but even I was impressed by how he connected a couple of disparate thoughts in a five second soapbox right there in the examination room, his left pant leg rolled up as the surgeon wrote in permanent pen on his busted knee: "This One!"

There is a look I give my Dad when he, in my opinion, gets way the fuck out of bounds in promulgating his batshit crazy conspiracy theories and political philosophies to anyone not a member of the immediate family. On their own my eyes go wide, and I inaudibly channel: "Shut UP! Stop! Shut UP! Stop!" By thinking it and not saying it, technically I am still being somewhat respectful. I believe this look is similar to the one that I give misbehaving students while substitute teaching. I tried this look in front of the mirror once. Not a good look.

To our surprise, my Dad-the-partial-invalid channels an inner diva. He's a demanding patient, who at the same time charms all the nurses with supremely corny jokes. He absolutely loves having visitors. I telepathically remind them to stick to subjects like the weather and computers, or risk full-throttled verbal assaults that will likely cover in one shot: Rush Limbaugh's possible, yet forgivable, drug use; anti-American global conspirators intent on ruling the world; how the Medici family of medieval Italy infiltrated and soiled the sanctity of the Vatican; and the "despicable creep" of socialism into government institutions [please note: his words, not mine, not ever]. He always manages to conclude this one-sided conversation with a rhetorical flourish on one of his subjects du jour: the pro-life movement, or the U.S.'s "clear" decline into an economic depression due to the current president's communion with communism [please note: his words, not mine, not ever]. I might add that he animatedly discusses all the above in a cheery tone, leaving his muzzled audience baffled ("But, he's so happy! But, it's such bad news!").

The part I like best when visiting my Dad at the convalescent home where he's recuperating is when I wheel him around the hallways of the home. We call it "going for a ride". He looks forward to it because it breaks up the monotony of the day. To say I'm happy he'll be back home in a week or two fails to convey a deeply embedded relief that at almost 75 he's got a lot of life left in him yet. He's got a brand new knee, he's healthy, and once he leaves his wheelchair and walker behind in the dust, all future rides will be in his prized '65 Mustang, windows rolled down, conservative pundits blaring, conspiracy theories brewing, and a gleam in his eye that retirement, baby, is where it's at.