Irony is the worst form of flattery.

In the course of a week I aimlessly wandered through Central Park and ate up the luscious shades of fall.

Needless to say, I graded midterms on the subway and in the park.  I aimlessly wandered along, breathed in the crisp autumn air laced with the scents of fallen leaves, and did not have to remind myself of how much I love this city. Then . . .

Then, I stopped and ate a bagel in town.  An everything bagel with chive cream cheese, and tomato slices, is my favorite dinner.  Don't forget the side of coffee.  Yea, I know . . . not the atypical dinner, but it works for me.  As I got up from my chair my knee loudly popped, others in the shop turned to look, and my eyes got big.  A dull pain began . . . That was on Saturday.

I didn't go to the doctor because I had to see my Lupus guy on Thursday, so I figured why pay an extra co-pay for something that was probably minor and could be fixed with a cortisone shot and a muscle relaxer.  There is also the fact that I am a single, thirty-something, with no kids, and no boyfriend.  Yup, that always goes over real well.  Needless to say, I hobbled all week, and walking wasn't completely easy.  When the Lupus guy looked at my knee he spent a good amount of time amazed that I was walking around on it.  Yea, it moves in ways it shouldn't.  It is swollen.  He said I should see a sports medicine guy ASAP.  But don't forget, the heart pill, iron, multi vitamin, plus birth control multiplied with the addition of plaquenil.  Joy.  Though, in all fairness, I knew it was coming.  Along with the continual swigging of pepto.  Yummy.  The taste of fake cherries makes me want to hurl nearly as much as the drug induced nausea.   

So, the next day I crawled myself from bed and after two sports meds offices claimed I could get an appointment until I got there--and I had walked several fucking miles on a gimp  knee that I now knew was injured for real and not minorly--I finally got seen.  Oh yea, I caved and took a cab because the office of the new Dr. is on the other fucking side of Astoria.  I also got myself a good one, or so I think.  There's a MRI scheduled for Wednesday, and in the meantime I've got a brace to give me some comfort.  Good news: there is no broken bone.  Bad news: two MDs think I've done damage to my ACL.  Awesome. 

There's an irony here . . . for weeks I've been making jokes about the desire to have a six foot plus tall man with a trim football player's body and deep voice to amuse me while my chest feels like it is about to explode.  Oh yea, Lupus guys says there's some pleurisy going on there too to cause all of the pain.  So . . . I end up with a football injury, when I haven't had a big guy come at me in ions and I haven't ran since the late August because of the broken heart (I've slowed to walking, mind you), and I still say that burly football guy would come in handy right now.  You know . . . help me elevate the knee and amuse me while my chest tries to explode and my stomach reminds me that plaquenil acts like a child of the devil until it gets all comfy with you.