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.  

Why Surgery Will Make You Giggle

If you want to experience gales of laughter, sign up for surgery.  Sure, there will be excruciating pain. But it seems a small price to pay to be exposed to the peculiarities of today's surgical practice. The duplication, primitiveness and conventions are bound to crack a rib as you bend over in laughter.

Five weeks ago I underwent rotator cuff surgery on my right shoulder. In the weeks leading up to the arthroscopic procedure, a daunting pile of documents flooded my email inbox.  Most were questionnaires about my physical health, previous surgeries and family medical history.

Here is a sample: Most recent surgery? (Tonsillitis 65 years ago). Have you experienced chest pains? (Only when the Dallas Cowboys blow a game.) Do you have any diseases? (Does hair lost count?) Do you have an enlarged prostate? (None of your damn business.)

The best was: What is your experience with anesthesia? (Well, it makes me sleepy.  In fact, I usually lose consciousness.  I try not to drive while I am under the influence.  Or make life-changing decisions, like attempt to order a specialty latte at Starbucks.  Is that specific enough?)

Every time I answered a health questionnaire, another surfaced. The doctor needed one.  The surgical hospital required the same information.  When I arrived at the surgical unit, the questions were repeated.  For gosh sakes, does anyone know how to share medical data?

To punish the patient, the surgical unit requires you report at dark thirty.  Then the doctors make you pace anxiously in the waiting room for hours as you contemplate your last moments above ground. McDonald's serves 200 burgers and fries in the time it takes you to enter the surgical hall of horrors.

Once inside the sterile facility, the nurse asks what kind of surgery you are having.  Really?  No one had clued her in?  "Rotator cuff," I moaned. "Which shoulder?" I looked stunned. "Right," I mumbled. She used a marker and placed an "X" on my right shoulder.  I'm not making this up.

Then the orthopedic surgeon bounded into the room after I was hooked up for an IV.  Nice man, but he too seemed befuddled.  "We're doing surgery on your right shoulder, correct?" he inquired.  I wanted to yell: "How the hell should I know? You are the one who is doing the operation!"

He scribbled his name on my right shoulder. I guess like deer, surgeons like to mark their territory.  It was like the entire surgical unit was confused about which shoulder was to be sliced and diced.  I am sure the doctor wanted to avoid a mistake.  But it doesn't inspire patient confidence.

Next the anesthesiologist arrived at my bedside.  He wanted to know if I had any past adverse reactions to anesthesia.  "Last time I was six years old," I answered truthfully.  "I don't recall."  He looked worried.  Then he proceeded to read a list of all the horrible things that could happen.

He concluded his recitation with this reassuring warning: "The state of Texas requires me to tell you that anesthesia can cause death."  Whoa! I almost leaped from the gurney and sprinted for the exit. No one had mentioned that possibility when I signed up for this journey into surgical Neverland.

As I was wheeled into surgery, I remember thinking: I should have at least eaten a last meal of steak, a fully loaded baked potato and a heaping dish of Blue Bell ice cream.  But the surgical instructions had emphasized a light evening meal.  Even prisoners get to pig out before the electric chair.

When the fog of anesthesia had lifted, I was relieved to know the state of Texas was dead wrong. I had a pulse!  My arm was swaddled in an awkward looking contraption. First thing I checked was to make sure it was my right arm.  I had learned not to take anything for granted.

Shortly, the doctor appeared and pronounced the procedure a success. That was a relief.  However, I half-expected him to whisper:  "I really screwed up.  I thought it was your left shoulder.  I got you mixed up with some guy named Roy Drew.  My bad. Can you come back next week?"

Last week I had cataract surgery on my right eye.  The nurse and the surgeon used an ink pen to write above my right eyebrow.  It took a week of furious scrubbing to remove the ink. This week I have surgery on my other eye.  I am wearing a blinking sign with an arrow pointing to the left eye.