The Insulted Knee
Donation protected
Hello.
I’m here because I’m raising money to get my badly-jacked bastard of a knee fixed.
You’re here because you want to help, because you’re pledge-curious, or because you deeply enjoy schadenfreude.
If it’s the latter, there’s plenty to be had—this knee is f**ked like a pagan prom date on ecstasy.
I slipped in Waxahachie’s commercial-lubricant-grade mud like I’ve done dozens of times before, but because I’m old and fat now, my quadriceps tendon tore to something like 90% and I also ripped muscle, sprained sprockets, and gave some business to my meniscus.
How did it happen? Just about 1:40 pm last Sunday, May 16, a tornado warning was issued for neighboring Maypearl and Waxahachie, where the Scarborough Faire is located.
Pants-fillingly afraid of tornadoes since I was old enough to be outraged that wind can randomly kill you, I resisted the urge to dive under the sturdiest nearby object, which looked like it might be Sholo the Nubian. Instead, I awkwardly and whitely race-walked toward the stage where my wife and her partner were preparing to climb up into their aerial silk rig so I could alert them.
Next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, making unflattering pain noises and looking up at concerned festival-goers silhouetted against the tornadically grey-green sky.
You know that sky.
F**k that sky.
I asked to be carried to shelter, meaning the toilets, less for the decor and ambience, and more because everyone on site knows they’re the only buildings made out of something stronger than the plywood one routinely sees being chucked aloft on the weather channel.
When I realized I was instead being carted to the first-aid yurt, I nodded to myself, unsurprised that I would now die with Texans. I always thought I might. My wife was there. She’s one too.
Happily, the tornado touched down briefly and harmlessly nearby, where the only casualty was a cow who is now in therapy.
I was ambulanced off through sideways rain and hair-parting lightning to the Baylor Hospital in Waxahachie, where an overworked few see to the needs of a great many, trying first to accommodate those most likely to die and/or pay. After three hours of listening to television and the groans of the pre-bankrupt, I was x-rayed, examined, told I likely had tendon damage and wheeled to the curb to become some specialist’s problem.
One week later, I have been unable to find an in-network appointment in Dallas because it turns out there isn’t one — my HMO, which apparently means Hand Money Over, only pays in-state. And that state is Ohio. And that’s why I’m leaving Faire early.
I did manage to get an I-know-a-guy MRI, and the results were, as I mentioned at the top, spectacular.
So here I sit, my last full day in the Dallas apartment I’m renting, while the Scarborough Faire is preparing to open without me. I’m flying home tomorrow.
I’ve learned a few things.
I’ve learned that my cat doesn’t like disabled people.
I’ve learned that bourbon is a poor substitute for pain medicine because it makes you brave when you most need caution.
I’ve learned that I can use a walker more quietly than the family of insomniac bridge trolls in the apartment above me merely walk.
And I’m writing a GoFundMe page.
Full disclosure - I’m earning decent money right now, between the podcast I’m writing, the new book coming out (THE BLACKTONGUE THIEF, my fantasy debut, out May 25th!), and those first wildly successful weekends at Scarborough. But, like many of us in entertainment and service, I’ve got debts and backed-up mortgage payments thanks to the pandemic year, so I’m hoping to at least defray the cost of my deductible and, let’s be real about American Health Care, pay for any procedures or treatment my doctor may want for me that the robber-barons of insurance may not agree to cover.
Should I be lucky enough to be covered for most of it, and should this drive raise more than I’ll need for care, I intend to give any surplus to RESCU, the organization that helps renaissance festival workers like me meet their bills. If this drive is successful, I will also *not* be turning to RESCU myself, leaving them free to continue helping others who may not have such a high profile.
So, if you want to help out, I’m happy to accept it. Your money will only cover medical costs, whether they be mine or those incurred by others in my renaissance festival family.
Thanks for being you.
I look forward to insulting you soon.
I’m here because I’m raising money to get my badly-jacked bastard of a knee fixed.
You’re here because you want to help, because you’re pledge-curious, or because you deeply enjoy schadenfreude.
If it’s the latter, there’s plenty to be had—this knee is f**ked like a pagan prom date on ecstasy.
I slipped in Waxahachie’s commercial-lubricant-grade mud like I’ve done dozens of times before, but because I’m old and fat now, my quadriceps tendon tore to something like 90% and I also ripped muscle, sprained sprockets, and gave some business to my meniscus.
How did it happen? Just about 1:40 pm last Sunday, May 16, a tornado warning was issued for neighboring Maypearl and Waxahachie, where the Scarborough Faire is located.
Pants-fillingly afraid of tornadoes since I was old enough to be outraged that wind can randomly kill you, I resisted the urge to dive under the sturdiest nearby object, which looked like it might be Sholo the Nubian. Instead, I awkwardly and whitely race-walked toward the stage where my wife and her partner were preparing to climb up into their aerial silk rig so I could alert them.
Next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, making unflattering pain noises and looking up at concerned festival-goers silhouetted against the tornadically grey-green sky.
You know that sky.
F**k that sky.
I asked to be carried to shelter, meaning the toilets, less for the decor and ambience, and more because everyone on site knows they’re the only buildings made out of something stronger than the plywood one routinely sees being chucked aloft on the weather channel.
When I realized I was instead being carted to the first-aid yurt, I nodded to myself, unsurprised that I would now die with Texans. I always thought I might. My wife was there. She’s one too.
Happily, the tornado touched down briefly and harmlessly nearby, where the only casualty was a cow who is now in therapy.
I was ambulanced off through sideways rain and hair-parting lightning to the Baylor Hospital in Waxahachie, where an overworked few see to the needs of a great many, trying first to accommodate those most likely to die and/or pay. After three hours of listening to television and the groans of the pre-bankrupt, I was x-rayed, examined, told I likely had tendon damage and wheeled to the curb to become some specialist’s problem.
One week later, I have been unable to find an in-network appointment in Dallas because it turns out there isn’t one — my HMO, which apparently means Hand Money Over, only pays in-state. And that state is Ohio. And that’s why I’m leaving Faire early.
I did manage to get an I-know-a-guy MRI, and the results were, as I mentioned at the top, spectacular.
So here I sit, my last full day in the Dallas apartment I’m renting, while the Scarborough Faire is preparing to open without me. I’m flying home tomorrow.
I’ve learned a few things.
I’ve learned that my cat doesn’t like disabled people.
I’ve learned that bourbon is a poor substitute for pain medicine because it makes you brave when you most need caution.
I’ve learned that I can use a walker more quietly than the family of insomniac bridge trolls in the apartment above me merely walk.
And I’m writing a GoFundMe page.
Full disclosure - I’m earning decent money right now, between the podcast I’m writing, the new book coming out (THE BLACKTONGUE THIEF, my fantasy debut, out May 25th!), and those first wildly successful weekends at Scarborough. But, like many of us in entertainment and service, I’ve got debts and backed-up mortgage payments thanks to the pandemic year, so I’m hoping to at least defray the cost of my deductible and, let’s be real about American Health Care, pay for any procedures or treatment my doctor may want for me that the robber-barons of insurance may not agree to cover.
Should I be lucky enough to be covered for most of it, and should this drive raise more than I’ll need for care, I intend to give any surplus to RESCU, the organization that helps renaissance festival workers like me meet their bills. If this drive is successful, I will also *not* be turning to RESCU myself, leaving them free to continue helping others who may not have such a high profile.
So, if you want to help out, I’m happy to accept it. Your money will only cover medical costs, whether they be mine or those incurred by others in my renaissance festival family.
Thanks for being you.
I look forward to insulting you soon.
Organizer
Christopher Buehlman
Organizer
Dayton, OH