Doug Clark: By the time you read this, I’ll be in a ton of pain

By the time you read this, I will most likely be hollering for morphine louder than the entire cast of “Hacksaw Ridge.”

Or maybe I’ll be staring at the ceiling with a glazed look on my face.

It’s hard to say for sure since I have no basis of reference.

All I know is that on Monday morning, I checked into one of Spokane’s finest nonveterinary medical establishments (no names for liability purposes) to get a divorce from my right knee.

Not that I had anything against my right knee.

In fact, I’ve always considered myself supremely attached to each and every one of my body parts.

Seriously. If it were up to me, I’d stay with my right knee until death do us part.

Sadly, however, this rather important joint and I had a falling-out that began some years ago on a tennis court.

The knee betrayed me, if you want to know the ugly truth. Now, just like Brad and Angelina, I can see no foreseeable hope of reconciliation.

I tried my best to avoid Splitsville.

We consulted experts. We tried to reignite our love with cortisone and pills.

Gradually, however, it became painfully clear.

Permanent separation. It was the only recourse.

As a result, I now must abandon my column responsibilities for an inexact number of days in order to grieve and – as long as we’re being truthful – get to know my new, um, knee.

That’s right, I’m trying to move on.

Don’t judge me. I’m emotionally devastated that it has to come to this.

All my life I’ve tried to be a role model to small animals and children.

Eat right, I’ve told them. Exercise.

OK. I did none of that.

I binged on Dairy Queen and got too fat, which only added to the gravity of my situation.

Now it’s too late, and I must warn all of you: Don’t take your knees for granted.

Here’s what will happen if you do:

You’ll have to stay up one night scrubbing your body with a nasty-smelling product called “Betasept antiseptic surgical soap.”

No eating or drinking after midnight.

Before bed you’ll try to go over your “Notebook for Knees,” a thick document that contains positively horrifying sections, such as …

“In the State of Washington, is there an order of priority for decision making for an incapacitated patient/resident?”

Turns out, the answer is “yes.”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t get any further before curling up on the floor in a fetal position.

Which made my right knee even angrier, I might add.

And don’t even get me started on the “Catheter-Associated Urinary Tract Infection” brochure that I found tucked inside my knee notebook.

Trust me. It’s better off not knowing some things.

Finally, you’ll have to check into the aforementioned health center where strangers in surgical garb will tell you that everything is going to be all right.

What they really mean, of course, is that “what we’re about to do is going to hurt you a helluva lot more than it’s going to hurt us.”

I’d say more about all this, but I think you’re getting the idea. Besides, I’m beginning to feel lightheaded.

See you when the screaming stops and I can walk again.

Doug Clark is a columnist for The Spokesman-Review. He can be reached at (509) 459-5432 or by email at dougc@spokesman.com.