It May Not Be the Bee's Knees, But I Hope My Knee Will 'Bees' Better

This is about how my knee feels now. Every day.

I am scheduled to have left knee replacement surgery this Wednesday (April 14, 2021) at Carle Foundation Hospital in Urbana, Illinois. A few random thoughts:

• This will be my first major operation since my kidney transplant at Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis on November 18, 2011. (Great Googly-Moogly! That was 10 years ago! I just realized that. Suppose I should think about doing some sort of anniversary tribute later this year.) And to tell you the truth, I really don't know how I feel about this week's procedure.

• My surgery initially was scheduled for March 2020, about a week before the world as we knew it flipped upside down and corona became way more than the name of an imported beer. My joint replacement was canceled due to a sudden, urgent need for hospital beds. Then it was aborted a second time in November when the virus spiked again. As a result, I have been in relentless, agonizing leg pain for more than a year, Biofreeze and IcyHot my constant sidekicks.

I have not been a happy cowboy.

As another result, I find myself approaching this week's operation with a feeling of...well, really, no feeling at all. I'm not excited or anxious or nervous or relieved. I was bitter for quite some time over the cancellations and the knowledge that my suffering continued through no fault of my own. But when you've been in pain day after day for months, it sadly becomes part of your normal existence. You learn to live with it. If you can call that living.

(Many deep thanks to Danny McFarlin –– absolutely no relation, unless his family once owned mine –– the physician's assistant who kept me reasonably sane between surgical disappointments with a series of cortisone injections in my knee. He really gave me a leg up.

My Surgeon: 'No-Pain Bane?'

(Too much?))

And while I'm told the pain will be worse after the procedure, at least initially, at this point it's all relative. Besides, fool me twice, shame on everybody. When I'm actually on the gurney with an IV in my arm and being wheeled into the OR, then I'll know it's really going to happen. Until then, I'm keeping my emotions on lockdown.

• The orthopedic surgeon performing my procedure (a total left knee arthroplasty) is one Dr. Robert Bane, who by all accounts is the Dr. Kildare of east central Illinois. I am not exaggerating when I tell you every single person who's asked about my operation has broken into a broad, knowing smile when I answer, "Doctor Bane," followed immediately by, "He's the best."

OH! I misspoke. One woman at my church replied, "I tried to get Dr. Bane, but I couldn't get onto his calendar. (Pause.) He's the best, you know."

Even other doctors praise his holy name, which is rare indeed. Last week my cardiologist broke into a broad smile when Bane's name came up. "You're in good hands," he reassured. Ironically, I have yet to meet him: we conversed briefly via Zoom many months ago, but due to COVID I will not meet the man in person who's going to cut into my flesh until I'm on the table preparing for the anesthesia. I'm in the hands of a near-total stranger. He is, quite literally, the Bane of my existence.

I am absolutely positive I am not the first one to come up with that.

• I know times change over the course of a decade, but I don't remember ever jumping through as many pre-surgical hoops as I have for this procedure. I have had a complete pre-op physical, new X-rays, bone density screening, blood pressure monitoring, a consultation with my cardiologist. Bathe with a special soap the night before and the day of surgery. Sleep on clean sheets. Stop taking vitamins and all supplements. And, of course, the obligatory COVID-19 test. 

Good news: here you can take the COVID test without having to leave your car. Bad news: It entails pulling into a line as long as the ones giving out free food these days and enduring what seems like a drawn-out, confusing and disorganized process. Very good news: The Carle system requires patients to simply run a Q-Tip around both nostrils, rather than jamming a stick past the eye and into the brain. Extremely good news: I tested negative, so we can continue to communicate.

• I suddenly came to realize one reason so many pre-op tests are required is because I'm not as young as my brain keeps telling me I am. I was blown away by the number of contemporaries who responded to my Facebook announcement of impending knee replacement with comments like, "Had mine done years ago," "Had both of mine done" or "You won't regret it." One friend even sent me a book of healing techniques after surgeries! Good Lord – my friends are getting so OLD! So thankful I'm retaining my youth.

My knee, without a scar. For posterity.

• I am also required to watch a video on knee replacement surgery provided by the hospital. Now, I expected a slick, well-produced instructional piece; after all, Carle owns about half the property around these parts and as a foundation pays no taxes. Instead I got a droning, hour-plus YouTube lecture apparently pulled directly from a long-ago seminar. What a disappointment! I have drifted off every time I've tried to watch it. The clock is ticking. 

• I was grateful that my pastor, Herb Coates, specifically mentioned me and my upcoming surgery during his congregational prayer last Sunday. Prayers are always welcomed. However, since I was manning the Welcome Desk next to the front door after the service, I was an easy target for every parishioner who wanted to inquire about the operation –– which seemed like every parishioner. I swear, I think some of them seemed to care more about my surgery than I do. Is that a good thing?

• I am also so, so grateful for the advancements in medical science. Knee replacements are commonplace now but practically unheard of in America until the 1970s. I think of my Aunt Carrie in Palmetto, Ga., God rest her soul, who made her living by cleaning the local movie theater. In those days you were lucky to have any job, so she worked on her hands and knees, picking up candy and all manner of filth brooms couldn't reach, well into her 80s. What unbearable pain she, and so many other laborers, must have endured! 

I'll think of you Wednesday, Auntie. Just before the lights go out.