“I can fix it but you will rue the day you met me and curse my name for two weeks!”
I’m pretty sure those are the exact words of the doctor I visited over a year ago. Even though it wasn’t the same doctor, the one who ultimately performed the “fix” was the one who received the brunt of my “Are you kidding me? You said it would be no big deal!”
I’ve been healthy most of my life, a minor cut here and there, some stitches on occasion and a couple very minor surgical procedures that I bounced back from quickly. Not so this time. I’m not certain whether it’s my age or the actual procedure and attendant consequences that have knocked me out for the better part of two weeks now. No driving, no walking, no lifting, no nothing has been the prescription that’s dogged my life since the day I slipped into that silly gown in the pre-op room.
Naturally, one would think, an idle state would afford plenty of time for thinking, reading, and even writing. Unfortunately, I’ve not been inclined to do any of those things. It’s been all I can do to get out of bed and find another prone position. What a wuss!!!
Yes, I know there are many who have been through much worse and most likely have fared much better, that doesn’t lessen my suffering, but it certainly gives it perspective. Heck, my wife’s upcoming heart surgery will greatly exceed my little procedure. But when it comes to a man’s privates, there’s just something about messing around down there that results in a huge pity party! You simply can’t ignore the swelling, the stitches, the “Oh crap that hurts!” when you try and roll over in bed.
Am I better? Yes. Did the surgery accomplish the objective? I hope so. Would I do it again? The jury is still out on that one.
The one thing I am thankful for – besides my wife’s tender and loving care, is the fact I have a new appreciation for those past their fifties that deal with medical issues that may seem minor on the surface, but take a great toll on the body. I’ve never fully appreciated that simply because I’ve never experienced it. Experience is a great teacher.
As I emerge on the other side of this little operable offense to my manhood, my hope is that I will be a better, more caring person. Caring not just for those who experience a similar procedure, but for any one going “under the knife” for any reason. Not just because I can sympathize, but because I can find the other person’s shoes a very close fit to mine and comfortable enough to walk a mile in, if need be, to help them get better.