A couple months back I went out to what used to be Mt. Carmel Hospital and get a coronary calcium scan to check for plaque that might break off, cause a clot … and send me across the great divide.

The genial tech couldn’t get the digital, computerized machine to work. After I listened to her shuffling around and talking to herself awhile, I suggested, “Maybe you should reboot it. That’s the first thing I do when my computer goes funky.” 

She didn’t. Instead, she made a phone call, talked to herself some more, and shuffled and apologized profusely until, finally, she gave up and I left. A couple hours later she called to say it was fixed and asked if I could come back.

“How’d you fix it?” I asked.

“Rebooted.” 

I went back the next week and got scanned. Dr. Carlson’s nurse called a couple days later to say all was good — no crossover anticipated.

Week before last I noticed my left knee — that’s been complaining for six months or so — was snapping at me quite a bit louder when I climbed the back steps or the stairs to our second floor. 

So, as he did a great job of tuning up my carpal tunnels and rotator cuff, I made an appointment with Dr. Mike Zafuta, former resident of the Republic of Frontenac and one of the students who gathered history and published a book on the Republic’s beginning while in Katharine Loth’s class at FHS.

After checking in, I was sent for X-rays. Two affable techs failed and apologized three times as they tried to get the computerized machine to shoot pictures of my knee. 

They were stumped. Tried a different panel. No pic. Wondered aloud. Tried another way. Nope. Wondered some more. (At this point I began to suspect that diagnostic medical machines were being disturbed by my electric force field, my juju, so I took some deep breaths.)

No dice, so, again, I suggested a reboot. The didn’t reboot, but they did go for a different option … and finally got it done and put me an exam room to wait.

“What’s up, Sawbones?” I said when Dr. ZaZa came in holding a laptop.

“Here’s another one the Arcadia Fowlers,” he told his assistant, referring to my cousin Bruce Bedene (daughter of my mother’s sister, Peachie Fowler) who I met as he was coming out earlier.

“That’s ‘damn Fowlers’ in these parts,” I smiled.

“I’ve got your X-rays here,” he said.

“I hope we don’t have to amputate.”

“No,” he chuckled, “not yet.”

“Good.”

“See here (he said pointing to the X-ray on the tablet) your knee has a gap on this side but bone on bone on this side. That’s where it’s hurting. You have two options; do nothing or I can give you a cortisone shot.”

“I think I’ll do nothing for now. My knee’s mainly whining when I climb steps.”

“Yeah, that’s what I recommend at this point.”

After the tech left, Doc showed me a splendid sunset photo he’d taken on his phone the same night I’d written about it as Linda and I were driving toward Iola last year to do an Amazon Army presentation at their library. 

Then, after a short visit about our families and the forlorn rags of growing old, I headed out to my trusty, Pathfinder Dogmobile where Arlo was waiting.

Speaking of the Labradorian, he’s now about the same age as me in dog years. He’s also got bone on bone due to arthritis and hip dysplasia. Consequently, we both stop a few seconds to eyeball the stairs up to the second floor before setting off to bed. 

A couple of nights ago, he elected to forego the climb. Stayed downstairs and slept on his pallet in the living room.

Next day, when I told my oldest son about it, he matter-of-factly remarked that I have the same option.

“Yeah,” I said after a short pause, a twinge welling up inside me, “I guess you’re right.” 

Then I drove home and took a nap … downstairs on the couch.

J.T Knoll can be reached at 620-704-1309 or [email protected]