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I kind of feel like I have been able to attend my own funeral: Practically (and virtually) everyone I have ever known has sent me good wishes re my knee replacement recovery. Thank you! So this is a response to the outpouring of love I have gotten. Word: I am not dead yet! However, during physical therapy I sometimes wish I was. 

  I can walk around. I took a shower. I walked up to Broadway and around the block yesterday. I have had good helpers to measure my pain meds and refill my ice machine. Daughter Hannah saw me through the surgery a week ago today, and sister Erin subbed in as handmaiden when Hannah had to go home. Mama Donna comes in this afternoon to make sure I am not moaning on the floor. They have been better sports than me. I am so lame.

Lame. Yes, I am lame. And, oddly, that's what Claudia means. Lame, after the emperor Claudius, who was lame—club foot. I just have a fake knee. Trigger warning: took the bandage off today.

Those black lines are sharpie. Also the surgeon's initials. She told me that the computer assist used by the Hospital for Special Surgery basically just helps to draw a straight line, which she is accustomed to doing by eye. Also she said she did not play football like every other orthopedic surgeon I talked to, but softball. And when I asked her whether the cure was worse than the disease, she said that was an interesting way of putting it. She said it was my call. At the moment, I feel like it was the wrong call, but everyone says to wait until the pain has lessened to decide. So I will. 

   I neva shoulda climbed Mt. Everest.

   Meanwhile, the apartment looks like an old person lives here. I guess an old person does. Is this a preview of the rest of my life?  Ice, ice, baby.