My story begins, as so many do, in the formative years from age 35 to 55. Spinal stenosis and herniated discs in my neck caused a slow increase in pain and great diminution of mobility and dexterity during those years. I’ll gloss over the opportunities and joys this presented me with this example. When I could no longer use my right hand to operate my computer mouse, I learned to mouse left-handed. After my surgery, of course, I became ambimoustrous.
It was early in the morning of November 18, 2002, a day I had been both dreading and anticipating. My wife and I entered the portals of our medical center where I checked in and signed a number of documents, most of which stated that if things went terribly wrong (in ways that were not clearly delineated), I would hold the hospital, the surgeons, the nurses, the cleaning staff and the security guards innocent of any wrongdoing.
With questions and images that these documents elicited in me, we sat in a small waiting room and, as was the custom in those waiting rooms at that time, we waited. After what seemed like an inordinate passage of time, we were told that there would be a slight delay in the surgery. So, we waited. Hours passed.
‘Slight’, it turns out, is an elastic term that the medical profession uses to refer to any length of time and any amount of pain and suffering. Have you ever been told by a medical operative that you might feel a slight pinch when a needle about the size of a turkey baster was rammed into your body? That’s what ‘slight’ meant for the time we spent in the waiting room, as I said, waiting.
Around noon, probably on the same day but I’m not sure, we were informed that the surgery would be postponed for an indeterminate amount of time. We asked if ‘indeterminate’ meant a day, a week, next year, when Hell freezes over, or what. It seems, however, that ‘indeterminate’ is a term much akin to ‘slight’. So we went home.
Turns out that our surgeon’s mother had taken ill the evening before my surgery was to be celebrated, causing my surgeon to be unavailable to surge. Also, that was the last day that the fellow was employed anywhere near the medical center. Bottom line, I had to find a new surgeon. So, ‘indeterminate’ took on special meaning.
I interviewed surgeons and they interviewed me. One asked if I would rather be standing or sitting after my surgery. I suggested that both would be nice. Another asked what I wanted to be able to do after the surgery. When I told him that I wanted to be able to drive race cars again, he suggested that I leave that to the younger folk. So, I continued my search.
Finally, I found a surgeon just returned from a stint at Walter Reed Medical Center, where he had perfected the art of healing soldiers so they could return to the challenges of their profession or engage with success in civilian life. When I asked if I could play the violin after the surgery, he didn’t rise to the bait. When I asked if I could drive race cars after the surgery, he opined that he didn’t see why that would not be possible. Once I figured out how many negatives were in that sentence, I realized he was the man for me.
So, on December 19, my wife and I entered a different medical center and I remained there until I left the day before Christmas with lots of titanium in my neck. The pain killing drugs were, as we used to say when I was young, ‘bitchin’ or what young people today stopped saying once I learned what it meant, ‘sick’. Suffice it to say that because of these bitchin meds I have only fleeting images and memories of that sacred holiday season. The first day that I remember completely was New Year’s day, when, as tradition dictated, my wife and I watched an indeterminate number of football games with a slight increase in pleasure.