I have a photo of me at about four years old.  I am posing in my bathing suit with a new friend on vacation.  Although I am slight in the photo, my belly protrudes and my knees look at each other.  Currently, neither is true.  But my knees are not my own, one being replaced when I was seventy and the other when I was 80-ish.

I was reminded of those pain-now-forgotten events this week, when my good friend had her first knee replacement.  Home after one day in the hospital, she reminded me that such surgeries are painful, especially after the heavy painkillers wear off.

Her family is visiting in shifts from three different parts of the country.

I am the backup.