The coffee went cold an hour ago. I knew I shouldn't sit that long.
I put both hands on the kitchen table and pushed. Halfway up, the back of my leg caught fire. So I stopped there, bent over, and waited. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. I knew how this went.
Nancy was in the doorway, drying a mug. It was already dry. She'd been drying it a long time.
She didn't offer to help. She stopped offering a year ago, after I snapped at her. Now she just stands close enough to catch me and far enough away that I can pretend she isn't there. Thirty-four years married, and that's where love had ended up. A few feet away, holding a towel.
My knees have been a mess for forty years. Twenty surgeries. Thirteen on the right, seven on the left. Two of them were big ones, where they rebuilt the whole joint. The rest were "clean-outs." In and out, like taking the car in for a service. See you next year.
Now both knees are waiting to be replaced. I'm fifty-seven and retired, but I'm not the type to sit around. Then my hamstring went bad, and even getting out of a chair turned into a fight.
One night I couldn't sleep, so I was scrolling on my phone. Nancy lay next to me with her eyes closed. She wasn't asleep. She never falls asleep before I do. I think she's listening for the sound of me being okay.
I saw an ad for a little massager that sticks on your skin. YUVY. I almost scrolled past. Then I heard Nancy shift beside me, still pretending to sleep. I looked at the screen again.
No wires. Just a small pad and a few buttons. I've seen a hundred miracle things. But the reviews sounded like people who'd been hurting a long time. They sounded like me.
It was two for the price of one. So I ordered them. One for my knee. And one for the towel. For the mug that was already dry.
They came four days later, each one about the size of a pocket watch. I fumbled with the pads.
"Want some help?"
"Nope. Got it."
I did not have it.
One went just above my kneecap, one right behind it. I hit the button, and the first buzz made me jump right out of my seat. Nancy laughed. Really laughed, bent over, holding the counter. I'd forgotten that sound. I'd forgotten I used to be the one who made it happen.
I turned them up as high as I could take. When the session ended, I started it again. Then once more. Thirty minutes, sitting still, doing the one thing that usually made it worse.
Then I grabbed the table like always and got ready.
Halfway up. All the way.
Nothing.
I waited for it anyway. Forty years teaches you the pain is just running late. It didn't come.
One step. Then another. I walked across the kitchen to the sink, and I didn't hold on to anything.
When I turned around, Nancy had her hand over her mouth. She came over and laid her palm flat on my arm, the way you touch something to make sure it's real. Neither of us spoke. The fridge hummed. That was all.
She wanted to ring our daughter. I said wait. Our girl had stopped asking about my knee on the phone. She'd say, "How are you, Dad?" and then talk fast about something else before I could answer.
"Forty years teaches you the pain is just running late."
Besides, I'd been here before. After every surgery, I'd think, This is the one. So I didn't celebrate. I kept stretching with my bands. I kept rolling my knee on the ball. I put the plastic back on the pads so they'd last. And I waited.
That was seven months ago. There are five of them in the kitchen drawer now. Two on each leg on the bad days, and one spare, because I'm never going back to that chair.
My knees are still bad. I won't pretend otherwise. The relief doesn't last forever. But it comes back every time I call it. And for the first time in forty years, I decide when I stand up.
One night Nancy told me about those mornings. "I used to time it," she said. "Every morning. Some days it was twelve minutes. Some days it was twenty." She looked down at her hands. "I never knew what to do with them."
Last Sunday our daughter rang. "How are you, Dad?"
And this time, she waited for the answer.
That's when I wrote my review. I hit post and squinted at the screen. "Nance, why does it say your name?"
She leaned over my shoulder and laughed that laugh again. "Well," she said, "that's the most useful thing I've ever written."
I got up from the table without even thinking about it and went to put the kettle on. Two cups.
If you're the one gripping the table in the morning, or the one standing in the doorway with the towel, give it a try. What have you got to lose except the waiting?
— Graham
