Torn Between Walking and Whining

Do you believe the Universe has a say in what happens to you? I do. And lately I feel like I’ve been in a slightly toxic relationship with it.

Now, to be fair, the Universe has given me some pretty good high-fives over the years. But I’m also convinced that when you tease the Universe too much, it doesn’t just tap you on the shoulder… it slaps you upside the head. I’ve been slapped and put back into my place.

When I was in the hospital back in December, I made a lot of promises to the Universe. The kind you make when you’re lying in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling tiles, and bargaining with forces you can’t see.

“Just give me a little grace period,” I said. “Let me get back on my feet for a bit before you hold me accountable.”

I asked for a month. The Universe generously gave me two.

Then on March 1st it said: “Alright, time’s up.”

It started innocently enough. I headed into the bathroom to, well… go to the bathroom.

As I sat down, I heard a small pop in my knee. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a polite little pop. And I said — out loud — “Well… that can’t be good.” But when I stood up, everything seemed fine. No dramatic collapse. No screaming pain. So naturally I did what any reasonable person would do: I ignored it. I thought perhaps I was being paranoid.

I even went into the scrapbook room and happily worked away for another 45 minutes, completely convinced my knee and I had reached an understanding.

Then I went to head downstairs.

And that’s when my knee said, “LOL. Absolutely not.”

The pain hit like a freight train. I could barely stand. Somehow I managed to hobble downstairs and collapse onto the couch where it became very clear that I had entered another situation the Universe was dishing out to me.

That’s when I called Blueberry.

Now, there are two reasons this was immediately alarming to her: 1) I was calling her. I don’t call people unless something is wrong and 2) I was calling her.

So when she answered and my first words were:  “Sherrie… I think I’m in trouble.”…I’m guessing she knew this wasn’t about  missing scrapbook scissors.

I explained the situation and said I thought I needed to go to the emergency room. She was in Renton (about 25 miles away) but immediately said she was heading over. My hero. (I’ll write about how amazing my BFF is in another blog. Suffice it to say, I’m still hoping I’m half the friend to her that she is to me – at least half. If I measure myself against the Blueberry yardstick, and I think I come up short.

When she arrived, we attempted the seemingly simple task of getting me downstairs. Spoiler alert: it did not go well. I managed one step. Just one. And then my knee sent such a dramatic pain signal that my body basically said, “We’re done here.”

At that point we accepted the inevitable: It was time to call 911.

About ten minutes later — or what felt like ten minutes — three VERY handsome firefighters showed up. (Do they hire only handsome firefighters?) I mean… if you’re going to have a medical emergency, you might as well have attractive first responders. At least I wasn’t lying naked in my shower. I wouldn’t recover from that embarrassment.

They were friendly, calm, and very determined to help. After asking a few questions and evaluating the staircase situation, they quickly realized their equipment might not be the best option. (My dirty brain thought, “Oh I think your equipment is just fine.) Ahem.

So they called for an ambulance. And that’s when things really escalated.

If I thought the firefighters were handsome, the ambulance driver put them all to shame. If I hadn’t been in crippling knee pain, I might have been drooling.

His partner, a female EMT named Stacy, was the true problem-solver of the duo. She suggested using a special chair designed to get people down the stairs safely. It looked like something between a futuristic wheelchair and a medieval torture device.

An example from the Interwebs

But I climbed in and was given very direct instructions not to “Help” them on the way down. The cute firefighter said “Keep your arms crossed over your chest.”

I tried. I tried very hard. But as we rounded the corner of my stairs I tilted slightly and my arm automatically shot out. I hear from WAY behind me Blueberry’s voice “DON’T HELP THEM!” and off we went.

What shocked me most was that going downstairs in the chair barely hurt at all. I had braced myself for lightning bolts of pain with every step. Nothing. But when we reached the bottom and transferred me to the stretcher? Sweet merciful heavens. That’s where the pain showed up with a vengeance.

As they loaded me into the ambulance, I couldn’t help but wonder what story the neighbors were inventing while watching a fire truck and ambulance parked outside my house.

My guess: “Something dramatic happened over there.” And they wouldn’t be wrong.

Soon we were on our way to Swedish Edmonds Hospital. Once there, I was whisked into the ER where Sherrie stayed with me for a while keeping a watchful eye on me and asking the staff questions that never would have found their way to my noggin. They started with a quick X-ray. Which showed…absolutely nothing helpful.

Next came a CT scan and then an MRI to figure out what exactly my knee had done to betray me so thoroughly.

The verdict:

• I had torn my meniscis. Both slightly torn.
• A piece of bone from a bone spur had chipped off. Lovely
• Fluid (likely blood) had filled my knee joint.

Which explained the pain, the swelling, and why my knee had decided to go on strike.

Surprise! You’ve won a Week in the Hospital A week-long hospital stay was definitely not on my 2026 Bingo card.

But I will say this: the staff at Swedish were fantastic. The nurses, doctors, CNAs — everyone was kind, helpful, and incredibly patient.

The things that were less fantastic?

Two words: Hospital food and Shared rooms.

But that… is a story for another blog post.

Next Chapter - One week in rehab…

…and whatever the Universe decides to throw at me next.