The closure of A1A due to the presence of you-know-who nearly made me late for my 9:30 appointment for knee surgery, the event for which I'd put my life on hold since December. I refused to discuss the future pending its outcome.
A very well put together woman of a certain age ushered me into the surgical waiting room. In no time at all, we were discussing the pros and cons of life in Palm Beach. She told me she was sorry to have sold her home in the Hamptons more than a decade earlier. "Things have changed here so much since then," she sighed. Until she expertly hooked up an IV to my left arm, I had no idea she was a nurse but the initials R.N. on her name tag confirmed it. A hat would have crushed her perfectly coiffed hair.
She was observant, too. "Is that Dupuytren's disease on your left hand?"
"Both hands, actually. I held up my deformed finger and palms. I've already had two needle aponeurotomies on my left one. As you can see they didn't do much good."
She recommended a hand surgeon at HSS. "He probably can do something for you," she encouraged. I noted his name on my phone, but shuddered at the prospect of more surgery. The condition hadn't got a lot worse in the four years since my last needle aponeurotomy. It mostly interfered with doing my push ups, and Dr. Berkman had suggested a successful hack: instead of trying to flatten my hands on the floor, grip a small pair of dumbbells while doing them.
Stephen Nygard, MD pulled apart the curtains to explain how he would administer the anesthesia, first using the IV and then giving me a shot in the back after I was wheeled into the operating room. He also told me they were running 45 minutes behind. Fortunately, they had let me keep my phone but I couldn't really concentrate.
A man was recovering from his surgery in the curtained room next to me. I overheard a nurse giving him instructions before eavesdropping on a tense conversation he seemed to be having with his wife. "You know you don't have to do everything yourself right away," she admonished. "Just let me try it!" he said, dismissively. Lengthy silence. "OK then, you do it."
Dr. Wang arrived. "So we're going ahead with a partial replacement on your right knee," he said, smiling.
"Do I have a choice?" I replied, a little stunned. "I thought we decided that was the right course."
"We did, but a patient can always change their mind. I showed your screens to a colleague and he agreed you make an excellent candidate for a partial."
"Then let's stick with that," I said. He marked my right knee with a marker and left me wondering if the consulting doctor was the Irish orthopedic surgeon Dr. Berkman had described as "the whale" at HSS and who had been booked too far in advance for me even to consider.
The nurse returned and urged me to try urinating one last time. Even though I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the night before, I still managed to pee a little. Dr. Nygard was waiting outside when I opened the door and escorted me back to my gurney before replacing the IV bag with the first dose of anesthesia and telling me to count backward from twelve.
He seemed like the kind of guy you could joke with. "Will I be awake to meet the robot?" I asked. "If we hurry," he said. I was wheeled into a very bright room with more people than I would have expected in green scrubs. "Where's the robot?" I asked, loudly. Several people laughed and somebody pointed out a nondescript piece of machinery over my right shoulder.
Did I really say (or just think) "You could at least have painted a happy face on it!"
* * * * *
I came to in a sunny room with Chris seated by my gurney. "Dr. Wang called to say everything had gone fine," he reported. "I asked if that meant I should come get you but he said somebody else would call about that." It seemed like somebody had made an erroneous assumption about our relationship. I had listed him as my ride, not my emergency contact.
A narrow bandage, about a foot long, ran vertically above and below my knee. I still couldn't feel much other than some stiffness.
A pleasant woman dressed like a nurse offered me something to drink. I took coffee in lieu of Coke Zero and all the cookies that were offered. "We can't let you go until you pee," she said. I used a walker to go into the bathroom but my bladder hadn't filled sufficiently so I kept drinking and asking her questions until it did. She had emigrated from Cuba, an interesting contrast to my morning nurse. Both women gave me a hug when it was time to go.
I was able to get into the Folly Chariot, already loaded with a walker for home use, without difficulty. The mid-afternoon coffee made me more talkative than usual on the ride and when we got back to the Folly. In fact, I had more trouble falling asleep than getting around the house, although I was thankful I had purchased a plastic urinal at Walmart to avoid the long walk to my bathroom a couple of times that night.
