The Surgery Hangover

People historically spend New Year’s Eve under the influence, and then the following day they battle evil little gnomes playing ping-pong between their temples. My experience, frankly, wasn’t all that different. In fact, the evil gnomes inside my head kept me from blogging until Sunday night. Or maybe that really was Kathy Bates from Misery hovering over my blog and gimpy knee, declaring “I am your number one fan!” Drugs make you see weird shit, people.

But first, an important announcement. Over the past 4 days, I shattered Kobayashi’s world record for most Graham crackers consumed. I didn’t just break his record. I put up a number beyond the reach of even Joey Chestnut after a one-week fast. This was like Babe Ruth doubling the single season home run record in back-to-back years.

Ok, here’s the big picture -- the surgery went fine, at least as well as can be expected. The lesions were larger than they were during the scope, which was expected. I won’t know their exact size or particulars until my first follow-up appointment on Jan. 12. The OS did tell Christina in the waiting area that my knee was a mess. I’m a “knee-abuser,” he likes to say. I’m not sure if that’s his way of being funny or just his favorite adjective.

Anyway, here’s how the Dec. 31st surgery unfolded, as well as Jan. 1st, or what I like to call the single worst day of my life. The next few days kinda blended together, so I just summarized them collectively.

I arrived at the surgery center at 6am. A white cardboard box with a purple and green “Carticel” logo greeted me at the reception desk. Those were the vials of my knee cartilage. Somehow, I didn’t envision this process beginning with my cloned cells sitting in a non-descript box waiting to be checked in by a receptionist in desperate need of a second cup of coffee. Kinda took the sci-fi edge off the experience, you know? But at least I knew the surgical team wouldn’t be waiting around for the FedEx guy to show up.

This surgery got underway much faster than my scope did 6 weeks ago. The anesthesiologist walked me through the risks, etc., and began describing a femoral nerve block when the OS entered the room. Turgeon simply said, yes, you’re giving him the nerve block, told Christina to kiss me good-bye, and announced he was ready to go. All business. Turgeon had on his surgical game face.

During the last surgery, I remained awake as they wheeled me back into the OR. The anesthesiologist and I actually talked about the current economy and its impact on law firms before I went to sleep. Very sophisticated pre-op conversation. This time, I vaguely remember getting stuck with the needle used for the femoral nerve block, and I was out cold before we left the waiting room. The last thing I remembered before going under was how my left leg – the good leg – wouldn’t stop twitching. I don’t know why. Nerves, maybe? Buh-dum-bum. Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week.

The surgery lasted about 3 hours. I awoke in a haze of drugs and was unable to keep my eyes open for longer than 4 seconds. But I was able to cram down 2 packs of Graham crackers and a bottle of Sprite every 3 minutes. I was just starting my 4-minute mile pace. I thought the OR staff might leave a cloned hand in the bed next to me as a joke. I guess they don’t share my sense of humor.

At this point, I wasn’t in much pain. It turns out I just couldn’t feel any pain yet because the nerve block was still in effect. The pain – that sneaky bastard – was waiting until I left the hospital. It’s kinda like a car that stops rattling the second you arrive at the mechanic's shop. It’s not fixed; the car’s just playing coy. It was time to leave the safety of the surgery center for the very dangerous Casa de Etri.

FULL DISCLOSURE – TMI WARNING. I don’t get embarrassed, but the rest of the blog entry contains a smattering of Too Much Information. Fair warning.

We arrived home and our bedroom was set up like NORAD’s Command Center. Well, if NORAD had baby wipes and a plastic bottle urinal on a king-sized bed in the middle of the room. We did have walkie talkies, but they weren’t battle-field tested. Instead, they were the Walmart kind, designed for me to page Christina in the bedroom if I needed something. I surveyed the scene like an intrepid field general and quickly realized the next few weeks of recovery would provide a sneak preview of what Christina and I could expect when we’re 90, assuming she hasn’t traded me in for a younger cloned knee. Actually, now that I think about it, the army reference isn’t too far off. The evening before the surgery, I got the military haircut. I figured I wouldn’t be able to shower regularly, if at all, these first few weeks. The downside is that when I eventually emerge from hibernation with the shaved head and bandaged leg, I will look like an injured Gulf War veteran. That might lead to some awkward moments.

Since the surgery, I’ve spent 23 hours, 55 minutes of each day lying flat of my back. Incapable of performing even rudimentary functions, I now fully appreciate why the elderly quickly lose the will to live once their dignity goes. I can’t understate enough how totally useless I’ve been. Christina quite literally just had her 3rd baby, only I need more attention than the occasional breast-feeding and burping. Luckily for all involved, I haven’t needed a diaper change, but I’ll get to that shortly.

Let me state clearly that Christina has been a champ (she demanded that I acknowledge her assistance publicly). She’s easily the front-runner for 2009's Wife of the Year. I need Christina’s help to do anything. From propping me up so I can shovel down another batch of those record-setting Graham crackers, to loading me into the CPM machine for my 3 daily sessions, to replenishing the ice in my polar-care coolant. I can’t imagine going through this alone, or without somebody as unconditionally giving as Christina has been. For her handsome reward, I promise to get her some really swell hand lotion. Nothing says a combined, “thanks” and “I love you” more than the gift of hand lotion. Just kidding. The keys to the castle are yours; just remember we live in a gov’t-funded castle.

The first time I sat up in bed with Christina’s help, I turned whiter than a KKK rally. Since ghastly pale isn’t a good color for me, we agreed it would be wiser to use a urinal rather than battle excruciating pain every time I went potty. Honestly, I’m a bit disappointed I haven’t used the Cadillac of toilet seat risers just yet. I know you’re anxiously anticipating my first report. But the urinal has not been without its joys. One of the small pleasures I enjoy each day is using the walkie talkie to advise Christina that I have just gone potty, which is really just the polite way of telling her to empty my bed pan. I know she looks forward to those calls, too. One time, I must’ve taken too much glee because she “accidentally” failed to dry off the urinal, so I got a nice little treat the next time I peed. Women are evil, even those that provide unflappable care.

I was about to detail the moment the femoral nerve block wore off and I accidentally triggered the screws inserted during the oseteotomy by firing my quad muscles, but I won’t channel my inner-Stephen King to share the horrific details. I’ll just say it’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt, like a piping hot knife slowly slashing across your shin bone. The pain went away about 40 minutes later, after I called my OS and he berated me for being an idiot for tying to move my quads. Point taken, sir.

Ok, I think that’s enough to memorialize my surgical and immediate post-op experiences. They say each day the knee gets a little bit better, so, in my opinion, that first year can’t pass soon enough. Like Short Round famously said, “Hold on lady. We go for ride.”