Les Payne

March 9, 2010

As I ran down the steps my heels slipped, whipping my legs skyward with such force that the left knee snapped like a twig. There was no doubt about the trauma the surgeon later compared to a hand grenade exploding inside the muscle and tendon.

Cold and helpless on the fifth step, I backed into the brownstone on my haunches and started the cover-up. Accepting only sympathy and an ice-pack, I rushed my wife off to work. I didn’t dare look at the knee speaking to me in throbs.

“I got this;” I muttered, faithful to race and gender. What’s the fun of being a black man if you can’t wax stupid about your health issues? The best advice I ever ignored as an editor came from Derrick Jackson, a vegan reporter who runs marathons. “We black men,” he cautioned, “have got to start taking better care of ourselves.” Sure.

Sneaking a peak at the wounded knee, I phoned two buddies about the bunching not the ache. Both journalists said that time was "wasting". Bill Rhoden, an ex-athlete who covers major league sports and head-knockings, said that muscle tears were not known to heal themselves, even under ice. My daughter, Tamara, under advice of my doctor, rushed me to the emergency room of Columbia- Presbyterian Hospital.

I chatted up the witty, examining physician, who skated non-emergency procedure and ordered up an MRI “What are they gonna do, fire me?” said the seasoned physician who took a special interest. Walking-wounded patients with neither punctures nor broken bones were to be released onto the street. The MRI from my comedic doctor who cared got me committed. It probably didn’t hurt that I have private coverage with an excellent insurance company.

The orthopedic surgeon, who heads the hospital’s sports medicine team, re-tied my quadriceps tendon with a string threaded through a hole drilled in the bone. As such procedures go, the operation reportedly went well.

The pain did not go so well. The four-hour waves were countered with a prescription for enough Oxycodone pills to keep Rush Limbaugh smiling throughout Lent. The Harlem pharmacist who hawked this legal drug demanded an extra $5 as a nuisance fee for “re-stocking” this “Limbaugh” painkiller. I went cold-turkey through all but the early, tsunami throbbings.

Despite all--and the ER ordeal will hold for another day--I remain grounded with an immobilized knee joint and crutches for the next five weeks. It just might turn out that the incident was a blessing in disguise.

Already, I’ve talked about the injury—and important matters--with Earl Caldwell on his radio show; so let’s go to the audio tape:

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