This my 500th post.
When I look at my poor right knee, I can see two scars. They are from two of my surgeries there. The first was in August 1975. Why?
In the summer of 1971, my ex-wife and I were travelling on an overnight train from Vienna to Venice. We were sitting across from each other on benches trying to sleep with our legs stretched out.
In the middle of the night, my duffle bag fell down and landed on my poor right knee. I believe that was the beginning of my troubles.
Over the next four years I sought medical attention for my poor right knee which was suffering. Finally, I was diagnosed with torn cartilage which required surgery to remove the tear.
My only previous experience was oral surgery during my youth. I remember vomiting after I woke up. My mother rewarded me with ice cream.
I checked into Mt. Sinai Hospital in Manhattan the night before my surgery. An orderly dropped off a razor for me to shave my knee. As I had no experience with this, I asked him to do it.
The next day I was terrified. I thought I was going to die. I kissed my wife as if it were the last time.
I remember laying on a cart being wheeled down a corridor leading to various surgical rooms. I was worried I would be taken into the wrong room.
Finally, we entered the right room, but I didn't want to be put to sleep before my surgeon arrived. I wanted to be sure he remembered it was my poor right knee which was to be operated on.
I told one of the nurses my wife was pregnant. She assumed it would be a boy. I told her I was hoping for a daughter.
After the surgery, and before I could go home, they taught me how to use crutches, especially going up and down stairs.
I had to stay in a hospital ward with five other men for a week. I remember the guy to my left had terrific back pain. Another man in the ward had had a heart attack.
I recovered at home, but there was no mention of physical therapy. Three years later, I had to redo the surgery, this time as an out patient and this time with physical therapy.
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