A New Knee

Checking into a hospital for surgery is like checking into the Army: You become the number printed on your wristband — name, rank and date of birth. You have to go by their rules, which they call “protocol.” No deviation. No rings on your fingers, or they cut them off. The rings, that is.

I tried to convince my surgeon, Doc Brian, that with an epidural I wouldn’t feel any pain, so I didn’t need to be sedated and could do my yoga breathing. He said, “But I’m hammering and sawing and making a lot of noise. You will feel anxious. It could affect your blood pressure.”

I was sedated. Protocol won.

I tried to convince the anesthesiologist to give me the minimum amount of sedation for my weight, and not a drop more. He sort of agreed. I still was given propofol, fentanyl and intravenous Tylenol. Propofol was what killed Joan Rivers while she was having plastic surgery. Michael Jackson died from addiction to propofol.

Before I walked into the operating room, I showed my surgeon and the anesthesiologist a photo of me taken 20 years before. I’m on my horse Gratis, jumping a fence, when I competed at horse shows on Long Island. I told them, “I would like to be treated like the retired athlete I am. Like a Knick, a Net, a Jet or a Giant. Not like a middle-aged woman getting a knee replacement.” They were surprised and amused by my request as they passed around my framed photo.

I did the original injury to my knee when I was six months’ pregnant with my son. While I was on vacation in Martinique with my husband, I signed up to play in a tennis tournament. I went for a backhand, my right knee crumbled, and I collapsed in a heap on the ground. Little did I know that, during pregnancy, increased hormone production causes ligaments to loosen in preparation for delivery.

After I had my son, I had the meniscus repaired, and over the years two arthroscopic clean-outs of arthritis. I skied, rode horses competitively, but my knee increasingly bent inward, forming a K shape. Finally, I could barely walk. It was time.

I never did drugs in my 20s and 30s. I was too busy working as an art director in advertising and having my kids. But having a total knee replacement made me think about pain and how I was going to handle the pain, since I can’t take opioids. The oxy family makes me sick.

So I tried CBD and other cannabinoids. I took a dropper full every 12 hours, and it got me through the two weeks of post-surgery discomfort. No opioids, no side effects, no constipation.

My husband is a saint. Being English, he is born pragmatic, but he also has a romantic streak. Before my knee replacement surgery, he spent $400 to buy me a 20-inch-tall toilet. It is so high that my legs don’t touch the ground — they swing like a little kid. Anything to make me more comfortable.

He also bought me a medical recliner with a remote switch that raises and lowers me to a sleeping position and anything in between. It also matches my beige couches. What a guy!

I just caught him reading a book in my recliner. I know when I’m better he will claim it as his own. He deserves it for taking care of me and providing an unlimited supply of ice packs.

Friends were thoughtful and brought over lots of “knee food.” Hey, we have to eat, and my husband is a good cook with supervision. But even he can use a break.

The Sullivans dropped off homemade spaghetti sauce, linguine pasta, a chicken and cauliflower casserole, spanakopita in phyllo pastry, homemade oatmeal cookies, and granola. Dot stopped by with a half a roasted chicken with potatoes and carrots, and an assortment of Tate’s desserts. Next-door neighbor Terry contributed a casserole of baked ziti with a salad on the side. Denise made Italian wedding chicken soup with meatballs, with a package of spinach to wilt in the soup, a loaf of French bread, and ice cream sandwiches. Tracy sent decadent strawberries covered in chocolate. Offerings like prayers for a speedy recovery.

Years ago, I was in a church in northern Italy and saw an exhibit of ex-votos. Ex-votos are offerings to heal afflicted areas of the body. They’re about divine intervention from a higher power, a “please” for recovery and a “thank you” to God if your prayers are answered. There was an ear, a pair of lungs, hands, a heart, breasts and a nose. Three-dimensional, they were made of tin, the size of postcards. They were graphic and beautiful.

I’m not particularly religious, but I did ask God to get me through my knee surgery and recovery. No ex-votos offerings, but a similar thought.

It’s almost two months since my surgery. I’m back to my yoga class. I’m using my second-hand Nordic Track stationary bike every day. My new knee is straight and getting stronger every day, thanks to physical therapy at Stony Brook Southampton Hospital. Thank you, Anna, Rom, Diana and Kelly, for your caring expertise, patience, and for your positive reenforcement. I’m feeling quite bionic.

Even with all the food offerings, I lost six pounds.

But I don’t recommend the diet.