I’ve Lost an Inch, but I’m Gaining Two Knees

Going Bionic, One Part at a Time

Prologue:

The big, beautiful bill has passed the House and Senate. Most Americans don’t know what’s in it. They hear about Medicaid cuts and green energy phase-outs — maybe catch a headline or two — but that’s about it. Meanwhile, the cable news cycle keeps screaming about on-again, off-again tariffs with China. Gloom and doom on repeat.

Oddly, it hasn’t hit our wallets. Yet. My IRA has clawed its way back to pre-Trump levels, which is either a testament to market resilience or a sign of the apocalypse. Who knows — maybe the crazy fucker is right about something. I doubt it. I still think the other shoe will drop and when it does, we’ll be ankle-deep in fan-propelled fertilizer. It’s a mystery.

In anticipation of all that uncertainty, Barbara and I — like a lot of folks — postponed our big plans. Instead of celebrating her 75th birthday in Paris, she’s going to be treated to something really special: my double knee replacement, and four months of rehab routines that make prison workouts look like spa treatments.

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The Shrinking Man: When Did I Start Shrinking?

So here’s the deal: I’m getting a bilateral knee replacement the week after Thanksgiving. That’s right — both knees, one surgery, one long rehab. My surgeon told me he rarely approves patients for a bilateral procedure — it’s longer, riskier, and rougher. But he assured me I’m one of the few who can handle it. I’ll take it.

Still, the whole thing feels like a concession to time. At my pre-op, standing barefoot on the scale, I found out I’ve lost another inch. Ten years ago I was six-foot-two. Now I’m a flat six. Shrinking with age isn’t just a figure of speech — it’s a slow collapse, and apparently I’m right on schedule.

The irony? I just had cataract surgery earlier this year. My distance vision is better than it’s been in decades. I can see the ball clearly, read a green like a hawk, and spot the flagstick from 200 yards out. The eyes are bionic. Now it’s time to bring the knees up to speed.

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The Math of Misery: One Trip Through Hell, Please

Why both knees at once? Because I don’t want to live through this twice. One surgery, one recovery window, one concentrated period of discomfort. Doing them separately would mean dragging it out for six months or more — and living with a “good knee/bad knee” situation in the meantime. No thanks.

With the bilateral route, recovery is hard up front but typically shorter overall — around four months. That gets me out of the weeds by early spring. With any luck, I’ll be playing golf by April. That’s the goal.

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The Real Gain: This Ain’t About Glory. It’s About Getting Around.

This isn’t about vanity or some fantasy of athletic comeback. It’s about reclaiming everyday movement. It’s about walking the dogs without wincing, hiking a trail without counting every step, standing upright without feeling like I’m made of gravel and rust.

Would I rather be walking the cobbled streets of Bruges or sipping Bordeaux on the Left Bank? Absolutely. But this year, I’m investing in something less romantic and far more essential: mobility. Freedom. A future where I’m not planning my day around how much my knees can tolerate.

And yes — there’s some satisfaction in upgrading the hardware. I’ve got new lenses in my eyes, soon-to-be new joints in my legs. Maybe aging isn’t just about decline. Maybe it’s about reinvention — one part at a time.

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The Plan: See You on the Other Side

Thanksgiving leftovers, then titanium. Four months of PT. If all goes well, I’ll be standing tall — or at least six feet tall — by spring. And if you catch me grimacing between now and then, just know: it’s not defeat. It’s the cost of moving forward. And I’m ready to pay it.

Next stop: two new knees, one rebuilt body, and one very patient wife. Barbara’s already telling me that San Miguel de Allende is the destination for next year. Hopefully I won’t get detained after someone from DHS reads my essays. Stay tuned.

Past mileage meets future upgrades

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