Surgery

In the summer of 1971, my ex-wife Bonita and I traveled through Europe with stopovers in Paris, Rome, Naples, Dubrovnik, Budapest and Vienna.  And then we took an overnight train to Venice.  That's where the trouble started.  

Bonita and I spent the night in a six-person compartment, three seats facing three seats.  We had the middle two on both sides.  While sleeping, I had my legs stretched out with my feet on Bonita's space and her feet on mine.  During the middle of the night, a bag fell from the overhead rack and landed on my right knee.  

The above event didn't seem important at the time nor when we woke up the next morning and arrived in Venice.  We found a place to stay and walked extensively through the fascinating city.  After lunch, we returned to our "hotel" and rested.

When I awoke this time, my right knee started bothering me to such an extent I had difficulty walking.  The next day I was fine.  This on again, off again problem with my knee continued for the next four years.

In August of 1975, with Bonita's pregnancy (with my daughter Rachel) staring me in the face, I decided to take the advice of an orthopedic surgeon and have my right knee fixed.  I did not want to enter fatherhood hobbling around on an untrustworthy knee.  I wanted to be physically fit for my child.

The surgery was performed at Mt. Sinai Hospital in Manhattan (the entrance to which was used by Woody Allen in Hannah and Her Sisters), adjacent to Central Park.  I had to be admitted the night before.  Soon such surgery, to remove torn cartilage, would be done on an outpatient basis, not requiring an overnight stay.  This time I would remain in the hospital for a week.

The night before surgery I was left in a ward with six beds for men with a variety of medical problems.  I remember the young guy to my left had severe back issues.  An older gentleman on the other side of the room was recovering from a heart attack.

A male nurse came in and told me to shave my right knee in preparation for the surgery.  As I had never shaved it before, I asked him to do it, which he did reluctantly.  

The next morning I was scared to death.  As this was my first hospital experience since birth, the great unknown was all around me.  I was placed on a litter and taken to the surgical area.  There, I was placed in a queue with several patients ahead of me.  

I feared I would be put in the wrong room with the wrong procedure done to me.  Finally, upon entering my room, I insisted I not be given anesthesia until I saw my doctor.  He eventually arrived and asked me to confirm which knee was to be operated on.  I think he was kidding.  Then in an instant, I was asleep.

I woke up in recovery and proceeded on the road to recuperation.  However, my convalescence did not include physical therapy.  Two years later I had to have surgery on my right knee again, but this time with subsequent physical therapy.  

Taking up running (see Jim Fixx) brought my right leg back to full size and strength, but also eventually led to problems with my left knee which required two surgeries on it.  After my fourth surgery in total, I gave up running which I had loved doing for ten years.  No fifth, please!