So, I recently had major surgery on my ankle. Let me back up a bit.
My arthritis—which I now refer to as my uninvited
houseguest—decided to make itself known. First, it went after my shoulder. The
medication stepped in like a bouncer at a rowdy bar and said, "Not
tonight." The shoulder was saved.
Then the arthritis regrouped. It strategized. And it decided
to attack my ankle with the kind of determination usually reserved for
championship boxing matches. It won that round.
So off to surgery I went, to get the arthritis removed and a
piece of metal grafted in to make sure my ankle could still do its job. I could
explain the procedure in detail, but I will leave that to the surgeon. Suffice
it to say, my ankle now has more hardware than my garage.
Three days in the hospital for the first part of recovery.
And I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised by the process and the people.
The morning of the surgery, I took a taxi to the hospital.
The driver was a nice young man who was gearing up to watch the "Football
Game"—Canada versus Switzerland, I believe—later that day. We had a good
chat about the game, which I am sure he enjoyed far more than the taxi fare.
Once at the hospital, I was ushered through reception
quickly, almost suspiciously quickly. I wandered down to the surgery waiting
room. I sat for about five minutes, just enough time to contemplate the meaning
of life and whether I had remembered to turn off the coffee maker, when a nurse
came out and introduced herself as the person who would be preparing me for
surgery.
We got to talking. And as these things often go, we
discovered she was from a town in the East Kootenays of British Columbia, a
place where I had lived when I was young. We had lived in the area for about
three years, staying with relatives.
It is a small world, is it not? She did not know my
relatives, though she has a friend who lives in Lister. I know Lister. And I
know Canyon. Both towns have what I would describe as a "unique view of
the world." That is my polite way of saying they are a little off the
beaten path, and the people there are, shall we say, wonderfully
unconventional. But it still made me smile. You never know who you are going to
run into.
Then the surgeon came in. She reminded me that we had met
before. She seemed surprised that I did not remember her. I had met her about a
year and a half ago for about 20 minutes, and today she was wearing a mask. I
am sure she is a lovely person, but I am terrible with faces under the best of
circumstances. Under a mask? Forget it. I struggle to remember my own face
sometimes.
Very professional outlook.
Then came the moment. I walked into the operating room with
the nurse and the anesthesiologist. I got on the bed. The last thing I heard
was the nurse's voice: "You will fall asleep, and we will take good care
of you."
They did.
I woke up in recovery. Spent two and a half hours waiting
for my leg to "unfreeze." Then I was off to my room.
For the next three days, the staff was attentive, kind, and
professional. The food was, well, hospital food, which I think is a universal
language for "we tried." But the nurses? They were wonderful.
When it was time to go home, I failed the stairs test. I
could not get up and down stairs, and since I have many stairs in my house, which
was a problem. So, I opted for Hospital Transit. They delivered me to my house
and took me up the stairs like a VIP.
And now, I am home. For the next eight weeks, I cannot put
any weight on my left leg.
So, I will write. I will read. I will watch some sports on
TV.
And I will be grateful for the people who took care of me, and
for the fact that, at the end of the day, I have a new piece of metal in my
ankle and a whole new appreciation for hospital nurses. What was your last hospital stay?
