A vision from a paper-towel dispenser

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Would it help your pandemic doldrums if someone told you that you are special? Of course, that “someone” may be a complete lunatic. Fine. But why not pay your money and take a chance?

I’ve generally been good with the fallout from the coronavirus — picking up groceries from masked teenagers; Zoom conversations with family who keep “accidentally” muting my voice; face masks that remind me how much I enjoy breathing.

And I am deadly tired of the never-ending fear that family, or friends, or really anyone, will get sick. Unfortunately, I’m afraid there is no getting off the pandemic bus until the bus stops for a vaccine. 

What to do in the meantime?

Hey, why not get my knees replaced?  

We’re locked down. My knees have been bad for years. I’m not traveling anywhere. Let’s just do it. 

And I did. 

Both knees.

No big deal. Several people I know did it in years past and love their new knees. And I will too. But . . . things started to take a different twist after the surgery.

Let’s start with a first for me — my wife appeared on a metal paper-towel dispenser on the wall in the hospital room. Yup, you heard me correctly. There she was. Right there on the dispenser. Talking to me. Telling me I was special. A Lourdes moment but without the Virgin Mary.

Or just possibly a post-surgery hallucination. 

No matter.

But then the plagues came. Spasms. Like full-body upheavals. Every 30 seconds. Oh my. I forgot that because of a bike/van accident 16 years ago, I was spastic. All this means is that if the doctor taps my knee with the little hammer, my leg shoots for the ceiling. Perhaps something I should have remembered before they tapped my knees with more than a little hammer. 

“What a dope,” I thought, as the spasms turned me in half, and then in half again like an origami fold. 

And two weeks passed. 

I survived. The nerves finally got comfortable with my new knees and they started to be on speaking terms and exchange addresses. 

Ah . . . but this was not to last.
 
Don’t you love the Biblical story of Job? You know, the good guy whose life goes to hell. He loses his livelihood to start with, then his children, and if that wasn’t enough, the third plague was “loathsome sores from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head.” And, by the way, all to settle a casual bet between God and Satan. 
 
Oddly enough, Job remained pretty darn steadfast. 
 
I, on the other hand, am not Job. I believe in shaking my fist at the heavens. After two knee replacements and then out-of-control spasms, I was, of course, still missing the third plague.
 
Before the spasms had vanished, the third plague arrived triumphantly with great fanfare — a gastrointestinal infection.
 
And you are right, it wasn’t “loathsome sores,” but I did spend the next 10 days in diapers.  And bent over in cramps. With legs that didn’t work. And the periodic spasm.
 
No kidding.
 
But then I had a revelation. Or my friend had a revelation after I told her the story of my woes. She said all the right things, and then slipped this tidbit into the conversation.
 
“Joe, you thought you were going to be special, didn’t you?” 
 
Whaaat?
 
“You thought this was going to be a walk in the park because it is you.”
 
And I’ll be darned, I did think I was going to be special. I did think it was going to be a walk in the park. Of course. It’s me.
 
Ah, but here’s the twist, I think I have a shot of being special even now. That’s what the paper towel dispenser said. Which is why we’re going to socially distance, wear masks, and wash our hands. We are going to survive this pandemic wearing diapers, or whatever we need to wear.
 
Why?
 
Because you and me and the teenager putting groceries in the car are special. How do I know? Listen, I saw my wife on a paper-towel dispenser. I had a vision. I was told. We are all special.
 
Take that, Mr. Coronavirus. 
 
Joe
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

12 thoughts on “A vision from a paper-towel dispenser”

  1. You really are trooper, as well as glutton for punishment. Only the latter and fools do both knees at the same time. If only, as always, you had consulted me first. When will you learn?

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  2. Hang in there, Joe! Hopefully every single day will be a little bit better. Always look forward to your fanciful travel writing emails

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  5. Joe, I have always thought you were special, and this post confirms it. Or is it Theresa who is special, since she can appear on a metal paper towel dispenser on a hospital wall. She is the only person I know who can achieve that exalted status!

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  7. Golly – what can I say? I am one of those people who had both knees done at once and my only issue was several days of uncontrollable crying when I got home from the hospital. If I’d heard your story I’d probably never have done it. Here’s hoping you have no more issues and can get thousands of miles of wear and tear on those new knees. I certainly would not have suffered what you have gone through without a hell of a lot of whining. And yes, you ARE special!
    Kaye

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  8. Can’t believe you had both knees done at the same time! You are a very brave man, Joe. That alone makes you special!

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  9. JOE! I had no idea! Way to hang in there! This brought me screaming back to May of 2014 when I had both of mine replaced. The memory of the torture WILL fade, supposedly like child birth does, to have people coming back for more, but you NOR I have experienced child birth so what do we know? I can tell you one day you will just realize that the nerves have healed and you think “well now, that wasn’t so bad was it??”. Keep ’em moving and bending, Special Boy! 🙂

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  10. So Joe, looks like our tennis game reunion will have to be postponed. Good luck and get well soon.

    Also, you have good looking toes.

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  12. Just back from PT for JUST one total knee and picked up December CityView on way home. I didn’t see your wife in the towel dispenser, maybe it’s because of my tears, both those from my pain and laughing caused by your column. Hope you are dancing down the stairs by now.

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