I'm Not a Doctor...

...but I play one in my bathroom.

Simon's injured knee was a short story that is rapidly evolving into a novel. A real page-turner. We did go to meet the surgeon on Monday; he showed us the MRI of where Si's ACL used to be. "You see this mashed potato-like blob right here?" It will have to be rebuilt, either from a ligament taken from Si's own hamstring, or from a cadaver. Hmmm... Hamstring? Or cadaver? Decisions, decisions... What do you think, Honey? Gosh! I don't know. What do we know about this cadaver? I mean, his ligaments might be unimpeachable, but was he of sound moral fiber?

I sit shivering in the surgeon's over-air-conditioned office, channelling "The Six Million Dollar Man" from when I was a kid. "We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better then he was. Better. Stronger. Faster."

Don't hum the theme song, Kate. Don't. Hum. The. Theme. Song.

Dah dah dee dah... doh doh doh doh doh dah dee doh doh.

My thoughts are starting to take me to some strange f***ing places.

The doctor asks him about pain, and Si tells him that his knee isn't that bad anymore. It's his calf that hurts. We show the doc his big, puffy calf and elephant-like ankle. The doc says, "Blood clot." WTF!!! Si has to have an ultrasound. "Don't worry, Honey! They're fun! I've had several." Sure enough. Two blood clots are the source of the pain. "Did you get to see them?" Congratulations, Mr. Diggins. Not just one, but two cute little clots! See? Here's the foot! Oooops! Well, it's pretty obvious THAT one is a boy!" They didn't even print off an image for him to bring home.

OK, Clot-boy. No surgery for you until they clear up. How long will that be? Oh, just a few days, weeks or months, depending. Depending on what? Depending on how fast they clear. Right.

Si had to go to a clot-clinic. He has to take blood thinners and I have to give him a shot in his belly twice a day. I don't know how to give shots. I call my mom, who is a (retired) nurse, and have a minor freak-out. "Oh, for heavens' sake!!" Mom comes through for me. She uses her best battle axe charge-nurse persona, which I find hugely comforting. "Anyone can do this. That drug just needs a short little needle. Have you seen the needle? It's nothing! Just pinch up a little fat and stick it in."

I'm getting used to it. In fact, I'm starting to like it.

• I like the fancy, shiny, pre-filled syringes, each one individually packaged. It is a huge shame, though, to use each one and throw it out. I find myself thinking, "Couldn't we find a culinary use for these?" We could use them to shoot a nice raspberry liquor into some peaches. That would be awesome.
• I like setting everything up. I "scrub" (wash my hands, then dry them on the bath towel I've been using all week). I take the cap off the needle and hold it up to the light to check the dosage. I check myself out in the mirror while I do this. Do I look medical? I love it that the pharmacy gave him syringes with the wrong dose in them, because I have to squeeze out .5 of a cc. I could just hold the syringe down over the sink, but I prefer making it squirt up in the air. Does anyone else remember the opening montage of that show "Emergency" (I watched it religiously), when Johnny Gage (when I was 9, I thought he was SO hot) squirts the syringe into the air? He had this really intense expression, which I immitate.
• I like giving Si a hard time, in order to distract him from the fact that I'm pretty awkward at actually giving the shot: am I pushing the needle in at the right angle? It is OK that it leaves a little bump of medicine under his skin? I always say, "[Inhale. Exhale.] Breathe through the pain." My sweet revenge for the hours I spent listening to him intone that same mantra while I was in labor with Sara. Part of me has been waiting for this moment ever since.