MOST IMPATIENT PATIENT

I don’t know about you, but I am terrible at being sick – the irony is that it makes me sick just to think about how impatient I am. What it is I am lacking, is the understanding of being a good patient, which is the patient who only thinks positive and works hard towards recovery. But I am the most impatient patient to be found – at least that’s what I’m told, over and over.

Luckily I am rarely ill or bedridden. I have the occasional cold; but I can’t even remember the last time I was forced to lie horizontal for other reasons than to sleep and stuff. But this last week changed my otherwise stellar record – I was diagnosed with a partial torn something or rather. That’s some stuff in your knee-area that are being ripped to pieces for some reason, floats around and gets in the way of nerves and hurts like hell. That’s about as deep a medical description you’ll get from me. This “condition” has roamed around for a very long time, with me hoping it would eventually go away by itself – well, it didn’t.

The doctor told me what it was, what needed to be done and what the expected recuperation time would be. I have never been anxious or nervous about stuff like that – just something that needs to be done – same with dentist visits, etc. Just get it done – no big deal. I’m a great admirer of “prevention”, and have been lucky never to have needed anything major in the cutting & cast department – never broken any bones and that kind of stuff.

But my HUGE deal is the fact that I’ll be off track for weeks. That is the part that I do not handle well at all. I’m an expert telling other people how to deal with stuff like this. But in the case of myself, I preach to deaf ears.

Now don’t sit there and figure that I am oblivious to the seriousness of people being hit with medical conditions vastly more important than what I have been dealt – so far. That is not what I am talking about. It’s the immature fact that when I have been kicked off the track like this last week, with more weeks coming, that I do NOT think outside my own little, pathetic box, hating people who (pathetically?) mention again and again: “But it could have been worse…” From where I see it, through kaleidoscope eyes of me, me, me & me, it is not that comforting – far from (I mentioned already it’s immature, didn't I?)

My wife drove me to the surgery center. Again, not the least bit nervous or anxious. I was soon ripped away from my wife (just to bring some drama into the picture) and soon interrogated concerning me actually being me; name, rank and serial number – again and again. Her name was Gretchen and the process was hilarious – it really was. I was on track and we laughed our way through something that might have been and probably is rather boring and tedious if you do it every day, and many times every day. It was my first time and it looked boring to me, so I spruced it up a bit – so we laughed a lot.

Then the proverbial asinine hospital robe. Now who the Hell designed these pieces of embarrassment and total lack of respect and practicality? I’m sure they must have shot that person by now – many patients would; and if we haven’t, we should.

First of all the pattern of small wild flowers on a robe that is too small and ill-fitting, is not the macho image I normally portray. And they want the vastly open part to be in the back? I’m sure I don’t understand the logic in that. I mean, in case of a heart attack, is it more important to get to the back-side of the patient or would easy access to the front be it? (Where most of our hearts are located) But besides the practicality or not, those pieces of intimidating cloths are all butt-ugly. But they forced me to wear one – had five nurses holding me down, which was actually the highlight of the day – giggle, giggle…

Soon I had two nurses hammering on my hands to find a vein to stick some plate into, to connect IV’s for drips and stuff. But what these two nurses didn’t realize was that my juiciest fantasy ever involves two, hopefully registered nurses, slapping me around on the pre-op table. I told them and the slapping intensified immediately – Oh Lord, have mercy on me (or close your eyes)…

The surgeon showed up and explained a bunch of stuff to me. My only concern was that if any scars would be the result of this procedure, could he make them show a Viking ship in fierce battle off the coast of Northern Denmark. For your information it will be three small spots, if even that – not even close.

The Knock-Out doctor showed up in all her energy and “no big deal” attitude. What she didn’t know was that I was looking forward to be knocked out – really. Just imagine that we can actually do this to somebody and this somebody can’t feel a damn thing, no matter how much cutting is done. I think it’s fascinating – and as quickly it had started, as quickly it ended. And I was rolled out to the curb, carefully stuffed into the car and home I went – still dizzy and starting to realize that I had to be a patient patient from now on till Hell freezes over. The part I hate so much.

I’m fine doing things for the people around me. It is something I do automatically, never thinking of being paid back in kind. But I am very uncomfortable when people around me want to help me, especially when I’m “normally” very self-efficient with just about everything.

So here I’m placed in bed, my right leg, very puffy knee and all, elevated on four fat pillows, feeling the throbbing of pain and pain and pain. Sure I got some great pain-killing stuff, but though it’s a great feeling, it does not kill the pain as advertised. It just makes you not give a crap about the pain – there is a difference.

Now I wobble around on crutches, which in itself is an art-form. Though they help alleviate some of the pain, and I mean PAIN, they don’t do it to my satisfaction at all. So I can’t move; I can just lie there being asked over and over: “Can I get you anything?” I would love to answer (so maturely): “Yes, out of this crap (meaning pain & suffering)”. But I try to be nice and: “No sweetheart I’m fine (even when I’m not)”

I hate being a bother to other people, but more so I despise being out of control. I want to go pee when I want to go pee and get it over with within a minute. Now it’s hacking up with bloody crutches, wobble through stuff on the floor, navigate furniture and pets, finally make it out there, do your thing, wash the hands and back into bed again – all in less than 30 minutes, duh? And it hurts like Hell…

I want to get well so bad, that I do EVERYTHING I have been advised to do. My wife is a terrific nurse (in real life as well), so I’m in the best of hands. But though I do what I MUST do to limit my time in this condition, I am still whining like a true professional – and seriously, I’m really sick of it; aren’t you?

See you next Monday – without those *&^%$# crutches and pain, please…