UNDER THE KNIFE 
My apologies to anyone who is a regular reader of my column, last week I had a date with the surgeon and didn’t get organized enough to send a column in advance.
Like many white haired seventy-five year olds, my joints have had enough and were sending painful messages that they needed attention. I felt like I had a screwdriver burrowing into the side of my knee.
Being on the “list” since May of last year and an actual date of March 20, I was less than thrilled when surgeries slammed to a halt on the 18th, two days before my big day. I now had a new date of May 29th.
I am thrilled to report that all went well and I woke up to find the constant pain was completely gone. Surgery pain was well controlled with numbing drugs and I was all set on the road to recovery.
The first day was complete bed rest, a bedpan took care of my only need and I slept round the clock with only frequent interruptions for medical checks, Heaven! The next day I was allowed up to the commode, here is where the moans and yells came into play. The time it took to transfer my bulk to the commode resulted in wet pants and me being given adult pull-ups to wear.
After several visits to the commode, I get the hang of moving my own leg into position by hooking my good foot under the ankle and swinging both legs into position….no pain, yippee.
My three days in hospital were spent mainly napping with short bouts of reading, the attention was wonderful and I cannot extol the virtues of the nursing staff enough. However, they all have an unhealthy compulsion to enquire about bowels. Every time I had my blood pressure, etc. checked I was asked if I’d had a B.M.
What is the obsession with bowels? I was only going to be there for a total of three days. I was being given Tylenol #3, which I find forms itself into a nice little concrete barrier that nothing can penetrate. Apart from Tylenol I was taking a variety of other pills and potions, a constant IV of whatever and I was not moving except for trips to the bathroom, I wasn’t eating much, so why did they expect me to produce waste?
My daughter took me home in her van, which was a comedy of errors. Which do you put in first, the bum or the bad leg? The leg was going nowhere without assistance and this caused pain, much pain! I got my bum on the seat and slid into place, however the leg couldn’t bend round the door frame. I finished up by manhandling my bulk off the seat and into the space between the two front seats, I could then manage to slide my legs into their allotted space and shuffle my bum back on to the seat. This was absolutely exhausting and I could only be revived by a stop at Timmy’s for my first real coffee for four days. OOOH BOY did I deserve that!
A repeat performance of the van procedure on arrival at my condo and then it was clunk-hop-shuffle to the elevator and my floor. Just as well I had been revived with my coffee as the long hallway to my suite seemed to have grown even longer. I finally got in my own little haven and sought the relief and comfort of my recliner with three pillows for the comfort of my leg. I now just need to get lots of rest, do my exercises and let my loved ones help me out for a while.
Life is good!