When Life Throws You A Curve

I have been counting down the days until my hip surgery on January 13.  In hindsight, I should have been wary of the ominous date.  Thirteen.  There is a reason hotels have no 13th floor.  Like a space launch, the surgery date has been scrubbed due to unfavorable conditions. Bum. Bum. Bummer.

The abbreviated version of this saga is that the hip replacement will have to wait for a more pressing surgery.  I have a bulging disc in my neck, spinal stenosis and a pinched nerve.  To relieve the symptoms, I will undergo an anterior cervical discectomy and fusion or ACDF in surgical lingo.

Warning: the squeamish may want to skip this description of the procedure.  The surgeon will reach the neck through an incision in the  throat area and remove two damaged discs in my neck, replacing them with cadaver bone grafts.  The bone grafts and vertebrae are fixed in place with a titanium plate.

Sounds like a pain in the neck, right? But I have new found wisdom.  This surgery is scheduled January 14 in deference to my triskaidekaphobia (fear of number 13).  Despite the complicated neck procedure, the neurosurgeon assured me this is a routine, minimally invasive operation.  

Moments after those soothing words, he added somberly: "I am required to advise you that the surgery is not risk free.  You could die.  You could be paralyzed."  He smiled and reassured, "But that has never happened to one of my patients." I hope he has done more than one of these procedures.

Surgery requires a one day hospital stay, which means eating suspicious clumps of nourishment.  Hospital  food is an oxymoron.  Medical facilities should offer an optional fast food meal delivered by DoorDash or UberEats.  Hospitals remain stuck in the 19th food century.  

Once released from Hell's Kitchen, I will be required to wear a soft white neck collar for two to three weeks.  I plan to make the best of it.  Here's my thought: Wear a black sports coat and black shirt with the white collar.  Everyone will assume I am a priest and start unburdening their consciences to me.

I might hang around the confessional at my Catholic church at odd hours hoping to snag some unsuspecting sinner.  Or I could visit retirement homes and run the bingo game.  This may turn into a permanent gig in retirement.  Father Roy has a nice ring to it.   But without the celibate canon.

Once I recover, I am skedaddling to an orthopedic doc to schedule hip surgery.  Two surgeries in the same year are like winning the military draft lottery during the Vietnam War.  I knew I should have opted for the extended body parts warranty when it was offered 73 years ago.  Too late now.  

Some of you (the few still reading) may wonder how I went from hip to neck surgery in the blink of a surgeon's eye.  For the curious, let me explain.  I had been dealing with neck and shoulder pain for about seven months.  Remedies failed to relieve my symptoms and the pain worsened. 

The first neurosurgeon who viewed the MRI of my neck assured me I did not need surgery.  In fact, he diagnosed the problem was in my shoulder.  Likely a muscle spasm or possibly a pinched nerve.  I gulped pills to no avail.  After a few exasperating months, I checked in with a shoulder specialist.  

She ordered physical therapy.  Two months later my status was quo.  A few steroid shorts and physiotherapy followed.  No change. If anything, the pain escalated.  Next stop a pain management specialist who looked at my MRI and announced, "Your neck sucks."  Those are my words not his.  

At last, I was encouraged to at least know what was causing my shoulder pain.  I found the best neurosurgeon and the rest, as they say, is medical history.  He advised that hip surgery might cause damage to my spine.  That sober warning prompted my decision to have the neck repaired first. 

Along my medical journey, I gained a few valuable lessons.  Always trust what your body is telling you.  Doctors can view MRI's, X-rays and perform physical examinations for a diagnosis.  But they cannot get inside your body and feel the pain.  You own the pain and you own your body.

Never unquestioningly accept a doctor's diagnosis.  It is better to be skeptical, to ask questions and, perhaps,  to get another medical opinion. After my initial diagnosis, I wish I had reached out to another neuro specialist.  But hindsight is a sower of doubt and regrets.  I prefer to live in the present.

That's why you need a healthy dose of Faith to make it through the medical hoops and physical distress of pain.  I know God is leading me, even though the route has been circuitous.  All in God's time not mine. I may have doubts about doctors in general, but none about my Faith.

If you know a prayer, please recite one for my speedy recovery.  (If you don't pray, just avoid being within 100 miles of lightning storms.)   

Until I am able to pound a keyboard again, I will take a medical sabbatical.  I will miss creating these columns.  Writing is a passion of mine.  However, soon I will be back at my desk, gazing at my computer and tapping the keyboard.  Only then, it will be without pain in my neck and shoulder.  

Tips on Tipping In the Modern American Era

Some politicians are serving up plans to abolish tipping for restaurant workers.  The loony idea is to raise the industry's minimum wage to $15 and in return tell customers to keep their change.  However, waiters, servers and bartenders have a tip for the misguided pols: stay out of our business.

Elected officials in several cities and states, for instance Washington, D.C. and New York, have placed the no-tipping idea on the political menu, sparking an uproar from restaurant staff.  Research from a California-Irvine economist found waiters agreed eliminating tips would lower service quality.

In addition, servers and others in large urban cities often earn more than $15 an hour with tips included, according to wage studies.  That made me wonder:  If tipping raises the quality of service and increases living standards, then why limit the custom to restaurant wait staff only?

Imagine you have an early morning appointment with your urologist for a prostate exam.  He has unusually large hands.  Meat hooks.  You show up at his office and slide an envelope stuffed with money to the receptionist.  "Here's a little something extra for Doc," you smile and wink.

Don't you think Mr. Hands of Stone might go a little easier on you? This also would likely work with dentists, those purveyors of pain.  Just before the root canal begins, you reach in your pocket and fetch a $100 bill.  "Be gentle," you whisper.  "I'm having a 16-ounce steak for dinner."

The dentist nods and discreetly glides the bill into her smock.  Suddenly the lights are dimmed.  A soothing Mozart orchestral arrangement plays on the sound system.  A needle pricks your gum.  Next thing you know you are awake, sipping a Margarita in the waiting room.  You feel no pain.

Think beyond the medical profession.  You drop off your gas guzzling clunker of a car at the dealership.  Your anxiety level revs up like your car's pistons because you fear a a repair bill larger than your monthly pension.  That's when you sidle up to the mechanic waiting to check your auto.

"Hey buddy," you call nonchalantly.  "How would you like some green paper with pictures of dead presidents?"  Your mechanic, a graduate of the Harvard School of Engine Knocks, knows exactly what you are offering.  "No problem," he answers over his shoulder.  "I'll put in used parts."

Another tipping opportunity is with notoriously crabby employees at the Department of Motor Vehicles.  You are stuck in a long line waiting to renew your driver's license.  Without hesitating, you elbow your way to the front of the line and nod at the government employee.

"I was thinking you could use a raise with all these impatient people to serve," you say in a hushed tone.  An unmarked envelope glides from your hand to the public servant's.  "It must be hard doing your job. Hopefully, this will make it a little more tolerable."

The clerk waves you forward as an angry mob forms behind you. People start shoving and shouting at your chutzpa.  The aggrieved employee ignores their complains and pouts: "If you people were a little more generous, I wouldn't go home every evening with a migraine."

Try spreading the tipping wealth with utility workers, especially meter readers.  Someone skulks into your backyard searching for the gas meter.  You sprint from the house and strike up a conversation.  "Those numbers must be confusing," you say glibly.  "Probably difficult not to get them mixed up."

The utility employee looks puzzled.  You reach in your back pocket and pull out your wallet.  "Consider this a lesson in math," you coo as you hand the worker a $20 bill.  Next month you open your gas bill and discover it is substantially less than the previous one.  Math lesson learned.

Bank tellers are notoriously underpaid, particularly compared to other financial employees.  Try this next time you are at your local branch.  Waltz in with a deposit slip and $100.  As the teller prepares the transaction, slip a $10 bill across the marble counter.  "Buy a snack on your break," you propose.

The startled teller looks up and grins.  After the transaction is complete, the employee hands you a deposit ticket.  When you get to the car, you glance at the paper slip.  It reads "$1,000."  A handwritten note scribbled at the bottom with a Smiley Face says: "Enjoy your extra zero!"

This tipping practice will nearly always be rewarded.  One exception may be the patrolman who stops you for speeding in a school zone.  If you make a move for your pocket, you could end up handcuffed face down on the ground.  Just beam and tell the officer: "I have a great tip for you."

When he gives you that steely law enforcement stare, plaster an amused look on your face.  "Hey, I was talking about a bio-tech stock that will likely skyrocket from $12 to $2,000 today."  Chances even an officer of the law will be unable to turn down a tip like that.  Speed on my friend.