One of the most mortifyingly memorable days this year was the day that I ugly cried in Dr. M's office. Dr. M and I were becoming well acquainted with each other. We spent hours in his office, discussing the knee and contemplating the next step. I've come to really trust him (which is sooo important when you are relying and depending on a doctor to help you) and I feel comfortable discussing my fears and concerns with him. I feel like Dr. M genuinely "sees" me and wants to help me. As a bonus, I like him. He's a cool guy. He has this bizarre sense of humour that never fails to crack me up. He says things without a filter - kinda like my Baba (recall the birth control story?) hehe. That's why I felt awful when he was forced to witness the ugly cry.
It was January. My knee had recently started catching, clicking, and popping again, indicating that the cartilage I had grown from my first surgery was likely falling apart. I was banking all my hopes on a procedure called OATS. This procedure involves transplanting healthy cartilage from one part of the knee to replace the damaged area. Dr. M was weary, but he promised that he'd confer with his colleagues and determine if it might be appropriate for me. We took our seats in his office. Seated directly across from me in front of a big wood desk, he began to tell me the bad news. He could not recommend OATS for me. I would be sacrificing a different part of my knee, making it prone to problems and there was little hope that the cartilage would "take." He took out the model femur (an Ortho staple, obviously) to demonstrate my lesion. This man loves to explain things. He would use any mode possible to ensure that I completely comprehend my injury. Although I typically understand after a simple explanation, I enjoy watching his eyes light up when he brings out his model femur, so I humoured him and listened intently and watched his demonstration. Suddenly it began to happen. My vision became blurred with tears. My chin quivered ever so slightly. Dr. M noticed, panic brewing in his eyes. Then.....BOOM!!!! The floodgates opened.
I cried. And cried. And cried. I hiccupped cried. I grabbed tufts of my hair and wailed, "Oh god, Oh god," while I cried. I snotted on Dr. M's desk, choked on my saliva, produced weird unidentifiable noises that I didn't know I was capable of making, and bawled my fricken eyes out.
As this was going down, I could hear Dr. M scrambling around his office, muttering, "Where is my kleenex? Where is it? Why don't I have kleenex? I should have kleenex."
He emerged a minute later with a box of kleenex. "I knew Dr. S would have kleenex. His patients are always crying," he joked uncomfortably.
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| No opening in the face is immune from leakage |
He plucked 4 tissues from the box and kinda dropped them on my lap. He awkwardly tapped my shoulder a few times - not like a "there there" tap, but more like a "Please. Stop. Crying." kinda tap.
This settled me down ever so slightly and I stopped crying long enough to whimper, "If you were me, what would you do, Dr. M?"
Dr. M looked somberly at me from across the desk and replied, "I would probably cry in my doctor's office."
Shit. I really am screwed.
So I began crying again. I cried for the extinct dinosaurs. I cried for Keanu Reeves' career. I cried for the hedgehog in a cast that I had seen on Pinterest. I cried for my shitty ass knee that was an epic failure at life. I cried until all the fluids from my body had leaked out of every opening of my face from hairline to chin.
Warning: These pictures are sad. Really sad.
Occasionally, I would peek between my fingers, just hoping that this was a nightmare. Perhaps I was alone and no one was here to witness this very private, raw moment. Nope. There was Dr. M, waiting patiently across the desk, nodding kindly at me (likely thinking, "When the hell is this going to stop?") I repeatedly apologized, "I am so sorry I am doing this," to which he calmly replied, "It's OK. It's OK."
Finally, I was jolted to reality when I glanced at the clock. I had an outpatient in 5 minutes! Ack. Snot running down my face, sticky, wet hair glued to my cheek, I made a quick exit - well, as quick an exit one can make on a cane (likely to the great relief of Dr. M).
As I entered my office (a mere 2 minute walk from Dr. M's office), my buddy and fantastic office-mate, Lisa took one look at me and knew that I had received bad news. I resembled a homeless person with pink eye who was just hit by a tidal wave. I crumbled and began sobbing in her arms.
"OK, Kirstie, do you have a patient right now?"
"Y------E------SSSSS," I wailed.
"Ok, listen. I'm going to go tell your patient that you are running 15 minutes behind. " Lisa reached for her purse and threw some items in front of me: wet naps, lipgloss, a brush, and a mirror. "You have 15 minutes to get yourself together. You throw some lipgloss on those lips of yours, straighten up, and get yourself together. Do you have any other patients this morning?"
"Nooooooo"
"Ok, good. So as soon as you're finished with this patient you can cry as much as you want and tell me everything. Got it? Good. Go."
Lisa was so direct and authoritative that I naturally felt compelled to follow her every command. I quickly picked myself up and got my shit together so that I could provide a quality therapy session for one of my favourite patients. And you know what? After a great session with my patient, I was out of tears and ready to carry on with the rest of my day as best as I could. I survived the ugly cry in Dr. M's office. Dr. M, on the other hand, is probably now scarred for life. To this day, whenever we finish up a tear-free appointment, he celebrates with a smile, "Well I don't know about you, but I feel good about that appointment. No crying."
Lisa W, I will never forget how awesome you were to me that day. You are and always will be a dear friend. Thanks, buddy.
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