Aging Like a Fine Whine

My right knee no longer likes me. Even during water aerobics, the gentlest of workouts, that knee doth protest way too much. And I amplify its complaints with my own whining. “Ow!” “Ouch!” “?$&@/!”

So, on the 30th of this month, at some time still to be determined, I’m having a little procedure aimed at relieving some of that pain. Now, Studly Doright is fond of telling people how I made him walk to such a procedure many years ago. And it’s true.

I was a new teacher—afraid to take a day off lest I miss the day I was to be observed by my principal. And in my mind, Studly was having a minor procedure. It was day surgery after all. I just needed to be there to pick him up. Silly me.

I’d forgotten that his pickup truck was a manual transmission and that his knee was in such bad shape that he couldn’t bend it to work the clutch. And he never mentioned a thing, knowing how worried I was about the observation. So he walked, on a bad knee, about two miles to the surgical center.

When I arrived to pick him up, the nurses berated me. “Where have you been? He’s been so sick.”

Still clueless, I said, “At work.” Duh.

It is a testament to his love for me that he only mentions this horrible story once a year. If the situation were reversed, I’d likely harp on it every night.

Of course, as the date for my procedure draws near I am a becoming a little nervous. We live about 20 miles from the outpatient surgical center. Perhaps I should begin walking now. Whining all the way.

Peace, people.

Make It So

My daughter was being prepped for surgery this morning. She’s a real trouper, following every direction, asking smart questions, seemingly super relaxed. But she has tiny veins, and when it was time for the I.V. needle to be inserted she knew she was in for a bit of an ordeal.

The first nurse searched and palpated for a friendly vein on both arms before calling in an R.N. to help. Most R.N.’s are no-nonsense, and this one certainly fit the bill. She spied a spot, injected a bit of novacain, and inserted the needle in the back of A’s hand in the span of an eye blink. I happened to be holding my daughter’s other hand at the time and probably won’t be able to use that appendage for a month or so. There were big old tears coursing down her cheeks. I don’t care how old one’s child is, when they cry, you cry. So I cried.

In the midst of her pain and tears, though, my daughter quipped, “Why can’t they invent wireless I.V.’s?”

Now there’s a plan. Could someone make that happen like yesterday?

Peace, people.

The Remainder of the Day or Get Along Little Polyp

I was shocked and a little disappointed that no one attended my colonoscopy  party this morning. Studly Doright reminded me that I didn’t actually put a date, time, or location on my invitation, though, so I suppose I only have myself to blame.

With no one but Studly by my side I checked into a local surgical center at the crack of dawn for the procedure that was scheduled to begin at 5:45 a.m. Apparently half of the 55 and older population of Tallahassee and surrounding counties were having procedures at the same time and place, for the waiting area filled quickly. 

Studly made me refrain from asking if they were there to celebrate with me. Sometimes he can be such a fuddy duddy. 

My name was called right on time and along with Studly I was escorted to a tiny curtained cubicle. Apparently privacy isn’t a concern in this center for we could hear every word of conversation from both sides, including the woman who kept asking loudly if she could use, and I quote, “the shitter.”

That’s why, when the nurse asked me if Studly was my husband, I answered in an exaggerated whisper, “Oh, he’s not my husband. He’s my lover.” 

Instantly there was silence all around us. The nurse took down the rest of my information warily. I behaved, though, knowing that soon she’d be inserting a needle for my I.V.

My veins are incredibly small. Normally I remember to caution nurses that baby-sized needles work best on me. Unfortunately after two nights of little sleep and paltry nourishment I forgot to mention that little tidbit that might’ve saved me ten minutes of agony as she  poked and prodded my right arm in search of a vein. 

Finally a savior in the form of Nurse “K” floated in, declared I needed a smaller needle and quickly had me ready to roll. They wheeled me into a surgical suite where I listened to the nurses gossip as they awaited the doctor’s arrival. 

Part of me wanted to tell them I found their babble terribly unprofessional while another part of me knew they’d soon be controlling and monitoring my vital functions. I kept my mouth shut.

Once the doctor came in drugs were administered and I was out. I vaguely remember some pressure and movement, but other than that I knew nothing until around noon, even though Studly took me to eat around 8:30 a.m. because I’d told him I was ravenous. Apparently I had French toast and bacon. I sure hope it was good.

I’ve slept on and off throughout the day. My stomach is tender, and I don’t know how to phrase this delicately, but I’ve farted like a constipated rhinoceros all afternoon. 

Apparently the doctor removed a small polyp to be sent away for analysis. He even sent me home with a photo of it. Should I frame it? Display it with the photos of the grandkids? I’d have bid polyp adieu if I’d been conscious. It had better behave itself out in the lab. 

I’m tired now, having been awake for more than ten consecutive minutes. Please don’t feel guilty about missing the shindig. Chances are I wouldn’t have known you were here.

Peace, people!


Not my polyp. Mine is cuter, and much smarter.

Life’s Little Lessons #3

with Nana Noyz

Do not read an article about surgically transplanting heads just before bedtime unless you are prepared to deal with ethically charged nightmares.

(If the link works, you too can have nightmares.)

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