As I understand the situation, and I could very well be wrong—although my wife has gone on record that on occasion I am right, but almost always for the wrong reasons—when you have a joint hemorrhage, the blood leaches calcium out of the bones. And, not really knowing what to do with it, the blood deposits the calcium on the soft tissues in and around the joint. Since joints, especially the knee and elbow, usually tend to flex slightly during a bleed, that calcium will build up in such a way that once the hemorrhage is over, the joint will be locked in that semi-flexed position. This will leave you, at best, with a very limited range of motion.
In the 1950s, a joint bleed could last for weeks. By the time it was resolved, the joint was pretty much frozen. It was also fairly common to have the same joint bleed several times successively. For me, the winters were especially bad. By the time spring arrived, it was not unusual for one leg, or both, to be completely locked at a slight angle.
Since swimming was pretty much the one physical activity in which my brother and I could take part, my parents enrolled us in swimming lessons at an early age. After a couple summers, they noticed that by the time the swimming season was ending, our joints would be limber again. They also noticed (my parents were amazingly observant) that after those summers when we had done a lot of swimming, we seemed to have slightly fewer joint bleeds the following winter. They figured, perhaps correctly, that because the joint was a little bit stronger, it was better able to withstand the twists and turns of life. This was, however, all conjecture on their part.
Stick Out Your Leg
Around the time I was 11 or 12, about a year went by when my left knee seemed to always be hemorrhaging. Even after a summer of swimming a couple hours every day, I couldn’t move it. The next winter I had several more bleeds in that knee, and by spring the doctors feared it was permanently locked in a bent position. After several discussions between the doctors and my parents, and occasionally me, it was decided that a permanently straight leg would be preferable to a permanently bent one. I, for one, wasn’t too keen on walking like Chester on Gunsmoke, but spending the rest of my life walking on tiptoes didn’t sound too appealing, either.
The plan had two stages. During the first stage, my leg would be put in traction to stop any more contraction and begin the straightening. This would last six weeks or so. Then I would wear a brace that would have turnbuckles that would slowly force the leg straight. Everybody was a bit vague about how long that would last.
To provide the desired traction, they put wide strips of moleskin (a kind of thick tape) down each side of my lower leg, attached those to a rope and hung a weight on it. I was, of course, pretty much confined to a bed for the duration. Before they put the moleskin on, a nurse shaved my leg. I asked her why she was doing it, and she said so my hair wouldn’t stick. It sounded plausible at the time.
Let’s See What We’ve Done
It was a pretty boring six weeks. I went home for some of it, but about the only time I was allowed to get up was to go to the bathroom. Otherwise, I was either in bed or lying on the couch with this weight pulling on me. At least at home I could watch TV, which was great except when Mom wanted to watch Liberace or Queen for a Day. Finally, they decided the traction had done all it could—I personally couldn’t see any difference, but grownups had their own view of things—and I went back to the hospital to get stage two under way.
First, however, they had to get that moleskin off. The one thing no one had considered was that over six weeks, hair grows. Not a lot, perhaps, but enough. Now, I’m fairly sure everybody has had the pleasure of having a bandage taken off. Imagine, if you will, an industrial, professional-grade adhesive tape about three inches wide firmly stuck on your leg from just below your knee to your ankle. (I think a lot of you ladies will know what’s coming.)
A Great Debate was held. One side was for a quick and clean release. The reasoning was that not too much flesh would come with it, and it would be over quickly. The opposing side voted for slow and methodical, using copious amounts of alcohol to loosen the adhesive. They felt this would be a bit more humane—a concept that had to be explained to a couple of the interns.
The slow Alcohol Soakers were allowed to go first. It started off well enough. The top edge of the tape had been slowly curling away from my leg on its own, but when they started applying the alcohol things started going, perhaps not horribly, but very definitely wrong.
The first thing this whole episode taught us is that I am allergic to the adhesive used on moleskin. Putting the alcohol on the broken-out, raw skin under the tape tended to make me sing in hitherto unreachable registers and only made the adhesive somewhat gummy. After several minutes, and a couple more ultra-high notes from me, one side was off.
By this time, the Quick Release Team was getting restless. An intern from that faction—it’s always an intern—stepped forward and said, “Here, let me give this a try.” He took hold of the leading edge of the moleskin and yanked it off like he was trying to start an old, rusty lawn mower. I don’t know what kind of sound I made, but the dogs in the research building next door all started barking.
After a proper bath I was declared ready for stage two, but that is an adventure that will have to wait until next week.
Read more Guy Boss at the Missing Factor.