The Goot Blog

Last August, convinced that I was a young athletic stud disguised as a graying middle-aged man, I accepted a challenge from my much younger sister-in-law Bonnie to play a few sets of Pickleball. "Damned if I'm gonna get beat by a girl," I huffed as I ran from one end of the court to the other trying to return her deft shots. This Saturday, however, I got my comeuppance: arthroscopic surgery to repair a badly torn meniscus in my right knee.

Having had some minor surgeries in the past, I arrived early and confident. "They'll have me put on a gown, wheel me in, give me some feel-good medicine and next thing I know I'll be waking up to a smiling, watchful nurse, feeling like I just had a fine mid-morning nap." Wrong!

I should've known something was wrong when the anesthesiologist rolled me over on my side and made me tuck into a fetal position. (No sexual jokes, please.) Once he'd jabbed me a few times and taped some tubing to me, he re-placed me on my back to await the surgeon's arrival. Shortly thereafter everything below my naval went numb, while everything above my neck was fully awake. And stayed fully awake throughout the hour-long procedure, keenly aware of every push, pull, request, clank, buzz, sneeze and cellphone call. No, I didn't feel any pain, but Yikes! I was uncomfortable as hell, kinda bored, kinda scared and totally unable to do anything but itch my nose from time to time.

The surgery itself went well. I can already walk around the house and climb stairs with very little pain or stiffness. Our retirement nest egg took a hit, but being here in Mexico, the surgery cost a fraction of what we would have paid "up north." No, the recovery was where my hubris was justly rewarded. Once my toes, then feet, then legs slowly began to regain feeling, I persuaded the doc to let me get the hell outta there. So Karen helped me get dressed. As I struggled into my shorts, My hand came in contact with this strange rubber chicken-y sort of thing. Ohmygod! While I was able to walk, my entire "package" was still out of commission. And stayed that way for several awkward additional hours. Driving home, I was terrified that I might leak, without ever knowing it, on my friend Charles' leather front seat. (I didn't.) It was early evening before everything returned to normal. (Don't even ask about the experience of trying to wipe a numb butt.)

Karen has made me swear off Pickleball (knowing full well that she really wants me to swear off delusional thinking and macho posturing). And I made a promise to myself: If I ever have to undergo another medical procedure, I'll either be drugged into oblivion or suffer the problem in silence for the rest of my life.