I traded my knee for a lifetime of telling people how brave I am
When I last had my knee replaced about a year ago, I dreamed of the moment the surgeon would amputate my leg and see my ruined left knee for the first time. It would certainly be the most arthritic knee he had ever seen, and he would fall into a silent reverie wondering how I had endured the pain for so long. “Look at this,” he would say to his assistant. “There’s not much left to throw away. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The nurses also gathered around, shaking their heads in disbelief.
That’s when the entire operating room team would start singing. Slowly at first, then increasingly more intense. It would be an enthusiastic comment You will never walk alone or – better yet – the four-part harmony version Lean on me. Tears stained their cheeks and fell freely onto their aprons as they thought of the martyred hero lying before them.
This time, when I returned to the same hospital, having my other knee removed, I wanted to do more than fantasize about the operating room and the scenes within it. I decided to ask the doctors questions the next day when they appeared at my bedside.
“I think you will write something for him Lancet?” I said to the anesthesiologist who appeared over my catheterized and limp body. “I guess you’ll start by telling me how the nurses and doctors gasped as they noticed the damaged joint, almost no bone left, the worst joint ever seen, how could he even limp? etc. Your essay will then include some uplifting thoughts about the miracle of human endurance and how this particular patient was incredibly brave during the weeks and months before surgery. You then add a link to my website in case anyone wants to order one of my books.
I propped myself up on one elbow: “Anyway, I guess that’s what you’re planning to do.”
A slight smile appeared on the anesthesiologist’s face, but the real surprise was that he was already sold on the idea.
Each patient’s ruined body part is the most ruined body part ever seen.
“We’re working on it,” he said. “It should be in next week’s issue lancet.”
“Will peer review be required?” I asked, to show that I understood such things.
“I don’t think so,” he said in a sharply medical tone. “We already sent Lancet They saw it all for themselves, thanks to your scans.” He walked out the door with a lively “cheerio” sound.
The scene played out again a little later when the surgeon visited. I mentioned Lancetscans and tearful nurses singing lean on me. He smiled, nodded, and said, “Oh, Richard,” indicating that I thought he was in complete agreement.
That afternoon, I began to wonder how they had both accepted my offer so quickly. Then came a sudden realization: Every patient gets caught up in this fantasy. Each patient’s ruined body part is the most ruined body part ever seen. The courage of each patient is the most incredible ever witnessed. The idea that a patient’s heroism should preferably be recorded Lancet – may be the most common side effect of any surgery.
A few days later I’m home and facing another challenge. How can I convince Jocasta that I’m in tremendous pain and yet I’m incredibly brave in the face of that pain? If I’m really brave (avoid whining, keep up my exercise, keep a cheerful attitude), she might assume the pain isn’t actually that bad. What a dire outcome that would be.
On the other hand, if I fully indulge myself Upper Pompeii – “Whoa, Whoa, and Three Times Whoa” – sobbing into my breakfast cereal, squealing with every step I took on crutches, eagerly for a full hour before falling asleep each night – might assume that I was a weak-willed whiner devoid of character.
The trick, of course, is to scream in a way that evokes considerable courage as well as considerable pain. The best I could manage so far was a barely audible squeal, like that of a frightened mouse; At this point Jocasta said: “Are you okay? Can I help you?” Then I look up with sore eyes and say in a very distant and formal tone: “It’s no big deal, nothing.” The effect is like a frozen Antarctic explorer going to die.
I repeat this scene every three minutes until Jocasta finally gets the message. “You look like you’re in a lot of pain, but you’re being so brave about it.”
Hooray. Bingo. Finally success.
Still, why can’t I, at 67, be treated like a seven-year-old from the get-go? Where was my fun pack of jelly beans after surgery? Where’s my Paw Patrol Band-Aid? Where’s my little red truck? Couldn’t the surgeons and Jocasta have offered the compliment of “brave little soldier” without me having to try so hard to persuade them?
People talk about the pain of exercising after major surgery. But that’s nothing compared to the real effort of recovery: the struggle to get a few compliments for a brave little soldier.
