Arthroscopic Knee Surgery (TM)

 It will be 2022 in just under 90 minutes, so I better type this fast or it won't count for 2021 and I have a rather pathetic number of blog posts for 2021.  I hope next year will be better.  Somehow I've gotten out of the habit of getting on the computer when I get home from work and actually writing some stuff.  I need to get back in that habit.  There's stuff that needs writing, after all, and it's not like anyone else is gonna do it for me.  

So, I had Arthroscopic Knee Surgery (TM) and it didn't go well.  Well, the surgery itself went well, but everything leading up to the surgery really didn't.  I was doing this thing solo because Joan can't drive, and although I'd arranged transport to and from the surgery center, I sort of didn't think I could ask any of my two intrepid drivers to actually go through this with me.  In retrospect, I certainly could have, but anyway, lesson learned and all that.  

A couple of days before the surgery I had to go down there for a Covid test.  Which is fine, I get the whole Covid thing, but there were no instructions about where one should go to get the Covid test.  I hobbled into the building with my cane, and there in the lobby, which is empty, is a sign that says, "Check in downstairs for outpatient surgery."  So downstairs I went, only to be sent back upstairs to the lobby and down the hall.  After I checked in there, they sent me back to the lobby for a third time and then up in the elevator to the third floor, where I finally got the damn test.  And I'm like, people, I'm hobbling around on a very unhappy leg, you know?  This is not a scenario that works very well for disabled folks, even temporarily disabled ones like me. I sent an email to the administrators. They never answered.  So things were off to a flying start.

On the day of the actual surgery, I got called in from the waiting room and the first thing they said was that they needed a urine test.  Now, this is particularly stupid because at this point, I don't have any urine. They told me not to eat or drink anything after midnight, and although I happen to know that you can drink clear liquids up to 2 hours before the procedure, I didn't want to argue about it so I just did what they said.  This meant I was dehydrated by 10:30 the following morning.  But anyway, I tried to produce said urine sample and ended up dropping the cup into the commode. 

They were not very happy about this.  They asked me if I could do it again.  I told them, uh, basically no.  I asked if they could do a blood test instead, since they had to run an IV for me anyway.  There was some whispered discussion among nurses and the verdict was, they would Find Out.  Then I asked why in hell they needed a urine test, anyway, and they said to make sure I wasn't pregnant.  

I am not pregnant.  I have never, at least as far as medical science knows, been pregnant.  In order for me to be pregnant, I would need to have been pregnant since 1992.  The Summer Olympics.  The vaulting finals. I told them this.  They did not care.  They said they tested eleven-year-olds and sixty-year-olds. If you got a period at all, they had to check for pregnancy. Hospital policy.  (TEXAS HEALTH PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL DALLAS, DALLAS, TEXAS.)  And I thought, who in the hell is still getting her period at sixty and how can I keep that from happening to me?  

Okay.  I get that it's hospital policy, even if it's an idiotic policy that assumes everyone with a womb is just that, a womb with legs.  I bet they don't test transgender men for pregnancy, even though some transgender men have uteruses.  I bet they don't cancel your surgery if you turn out to be pregnant, either, though I don't know; maybe they do.  But I don't take well to being treated like a womb with legs.  So next time I'm just going to lie.  "Nope, haven't had a period in years."  Seriously, do you want a relationship with a medical professional that starts out with being called a liar?  If they're going to call you a liar, you might as well actually be one.  

So, as I said, things were not going well.  I hadn't had my meds that morning, either, since they told me nothing to eat or drink after midnight.  Then I got to the pre-op area and they had left a gown out for me that was about five sizes too small.  People, my height and weight is in my medical records; you might not be able to extrapolate my exact size from that information, but is a plus size gown really out of the question?  So I had to call the nurse and send her back out to get a plus size gown, and while that was going on  I called Joan and told her I was ready to cancel the whole thing and just leave now and should I get an Uber or should I call Kellum, who was picking me up, or what.  

Joan, naturally, talked me down.  Something about the doctor probably didn't have a choice of what hospital surgery center he was allowed to operate at.  So even if I did reschedule, I'd have to do this all over again with the same gang of idiots. By this time the nurse was back with a gown that actually fit, so I began to think things might actually be okay.  Then the nurse tried to start my IV and stuck me five different times.  

(Eye roll)

Well, again, I was dehydrated. There's nothing to get veins to collapse like not having enough in them.  Fortunately, somebody somewhere had a moment of clarity and got me another nurse.  The second nurse was obviously trained in how to talk down a surgery patient who was about ready to climb out a window and disappear, because she spoke in very soothing tones and generally wasn't an idiot.  She also got my IV going on the first try.  Imagine that.  (Incidentally, it's a month later and I still have a huge yellow bruise from one of the first lady's needle sticks.) 

Once the IV got started, things got a lot better.  Drugs may have had something to do with that.  The next thing I knew, it was over and Kellum was there to pick me up.  The doc said everything had gone very well, except for my meniscus, which was totally shredded to the point where they had to basically remove the whole thing.  He wanted to know if I'd been in a car accident, or a bad fall, or something else that might have caused that kind of damage.  My answer was, basically, no.  I still have no idea how I came by this injury.  My best and only guess is uneven pavement, and that exists all over Dallas.  So, I may do fine with no meniscus.  Or I may really be in trouble.  We don't really know and won't for some weeks yet.  If I'm still in pain after everything heals up, the next step is a knee replacement.  Let's hope that doesn't happen any time soon because with the pandemic filling all the hospital rooms, I won't be able to get one for quite a while anyway.

I was packed off home and spent the next four days recovering.  I'm in physical therapy now and we get to play with lots of cool toys.  And I'm sore a lot, but it's easier to get on and off the couch without help.  Which is good.  I'm still hobbling around with a cane, but maybe by February I won't need it anymore.

So that's the story of my knee surgery.  Now it's almost 2022 and people are lighting fireworks and firing off guns and just all manner of strange things, so I'm going into the kitchen, like I do every year, and hide under the table until about five minutes after midnight.  Y'all be safe now.  If you're going out, mask up and drive sober, but have a wonderful time and a happy, peaceful 2022.  I'd say you've earned it.  Wouldn't you?