The Resistance is strong. And now it’s bionic.

The author takes to the streets of Seattle. (Photo by Joseph Ferrara)

Last July, I marched 1.5 miles from the Space Needle to the Henry Jackson Federal Building in Seattle chanting “Impeach Donald Trump.” Our group made the local news. The resistance was strong!

Last month, it was all I could do to hobble outside to let my dog tinkle.

Arthritis was slowly turning the cartilage in my left knee into some kind of mad stegosaurus brandishing a razor blade. The slow degradation was interfering with my ability to walk, dance, and get in and out of my 10-foot kayak — not to mention another favorite sport — giving Trump hell.

So off I went on March 2 for total knee replacement surgery. My surgeon sliced open my knee and rebuilt it with titanium, chrome, and cobalt. Titanium! It’s the same metal used in jet engines, rockets, missiles, and maybe even Trump’s golf clubs. My surgeon was Dr. Camille Clinton. As you may have guessed, it wasn’t the first time I had chosen a Madame Clinton to do a supremely important task.

Dr. Clinton minced no words. This would be one of the most painful surgeries. And so it was. Swinging my bionic limb into bed the first few nights filled me with seething pain that persisted despite narcotics, NSAIDS, and ice packs. On my third night after surgery, I popped an Oxycodone and had a horrifying nightmare born of pain and drugs. I had moved to Chicago for a new job and befriended co-workers who gave me a place to stay while apartment hunting. At night, they turned into she-wolves and started biting my face off. I stabbed them with knives, ran away and took refuge in a tool shed. Their snarling breath created tendrils of steam outside the door.

Yelp!

One week later, the she-wolves of Chicago were in retreat. I could walk from my bed to the bathroom without using a cane or walker and slink downstairs with a cane for meals. As the pain diminished, I stopped channeling Stephen King horror novels at night.

Still, I couldn’t comfortably leave my house except for doctors appointments. I was beginning to feel like Paul Manafort under house arrest, except that a) I have never done PR and marketing for strongmen Ferdinand Marcos of the Philippines, Viktor Yanukovych of Ukraine, and Jonas Savimbi of Angola, and b) I would soon be free.

Invitations to political marches came whizzing into my inbox. March for Our Lives on March 24. The March for Science on April 14. All I could do was sigh and ride my Continuous Passive Motion machine, designed to increase flexibility.

Given my state, it was tempting to take a vacation from the Resistance. My body needed to focus on recuperating. But when you wake up to New York Times headlines such as “Tillerson Out After Rocky Tenure at State,” it is impossible to forget the shit show that is our current administration, and unthinkable to stop resisting.

In between narcotics-flavored naps, ice packs, and ankle pumps, I was a “slacktivist.” I refreshed my ACLU membership, easy enough to do with a smartphone and a PayPal account. I joined Common Cause, a nonpartisan group dedicated to upholding the values of American democracy. My hero Robert Reich is board chair. Common Cause does cool, in-your-face stuff. On March 12, it filed complaints with the Department of Justice and the Federal Election Commission to include President Trump as well as his personal attorney Michael Cohen for their roles in what appear to be violations of campaign finance law related to the $130,000 in hush money payment to Stormy Daniels just weeks before the 2016 election.

I discovered other creative ways to stick it to Trump while lying underneath my ice packs. I donated to the MAD DOG PAC, which erected an “Impeachment Now” billboard right near Mar-a-Lago. I wish I could be there to see the look on his mouth when he sees it. Talk about your tightening sphincter.

Most days, my knee was so stiff, unyielding, and utterly annoying, I wondered whether my surgeon had in fact implanted a titanium golf club in my leg. After in-home physical therapy, however, it became clear what I had to do: Push through the pain. Bend that knee until the she-wolves of Chicago were eating my face again. Recover with ice packs, narcotics, and sleep.

Epic marches approach on March 24 — 750 of them, coast to coast, to be exact. March for Our Lives, sparked by the tragic mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, is another opportunity for Americans to take to the streets to demand change. Sadly, I won’t be ready to march by then.

But you know what I can do? I can help the fine young people who are marching. MomsRising is collecting money for the #NoNRAMoney Coalition to pay the printing costs for 15,000 signs for students to carry in Washington, D.C. and Parkland, Florida. I gave them a small donation.

Until then, I will push through the pain and dream of pounding the pavement again.

If you’re old and arthritic like me, perhaps you’ll remember the 1970s TV show, “The Six Million Dollar Man.” Lee Majors portrayed Steve Austin, an astronaut whose body was wrecked in a horrible crash. He was rebuilt with nuclear-powered legs, a nuclear-powered arm, and a bionic eye with a 20:1 zoom lens. He could run more than 60 mph!

When I asked my doctor whether I would be able to jog after surgery, she said “Nope.” Too much wear and tear. But marching? Oh, hell yeah. My new titanium knee might not be nuclear-powered, but it will be stronger, better, and faster, and it will take orders from my brain. And the orders are this:

Uppity cyborgs unite!