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DOUBLE YOUR PLEASURE,
DOUBLE YOUR PAIN
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I haven't written a medical column in a while, so in the
interests of all aging, crippled readers I went out and got a double knee
replacement last Wednesday. And lived to write about it.
That's right, not one but two. That's what true patriots
do---save Medicare some money with the two for one discount. You're welcome,
taxpayers.
There's also a certain bravado involved. There are many horror
stories about single knee replacements. Excruciating pain, tortuous
rehab, exasperated nurses (usually spouses). So why not do two at the same
time and double the fun?
I put it off for as long as I could. Ten years ago I had pain
in my right knee and saw an orthopedist to see if he could do minor
arthroscopic surgery to alleviate the problem. I'll never forget his exact
words when he took one look at the x-ray.
"Your house is burning down, and you want me to go in and
paint a wall?" he said, pointing out the bone-on-bone x-ray. "I
won't do it."
Point taken. I was a prime candidate for a replacement,
whenever I was ready. But I wasn't ready. I wanted that discount.
Wish granted. In the last year or so, the left knee finally
caught up with the right. Both houses were now burning down, as I expected,
and there was no way I was going to go through the experience twice.
About 6% of all knee replacements in the United States are
double, or bilateral replacements. A candidate must be in relatively good
shape to qualify. That's the first thing I tell someone who is incredulous
that I was willing to do it.
My wife, of course, was particularly impressed. "I'm
sending you to one of those live-in rehab places after your operation,"
she said when I told her what I was going to do. "I promise to
visit."
Neither one of us are great nurses. But I wasn't going
anywhere. If I was going to suffer, I wanted her to be by my side, 24 hours
a day. One night in the hospital, and then I'd be home to make her life
miserable. I know she'd do the same for me.
Besides, it might not be that bad. "Remember what my
surgeon said at my pre-op appointment when he studied my x-rays?" I
said, proudly remembering. "When I told him I was still playing golf
and tennis with only marginal discomfort, he said I must have a high
tolerance for pain."
She shrugged. "Yep, and I remember your response, too. You
told him he's never seen you at the dentist."
It was true. I was no macho man. I could whine and squeal with the best of
them. This was going to be ugly.
The operation last Wednesday went well. I had two new knees and
felt great, thanks to nerve blocks and who knows what other drugs I received
during the operation. I was as happy as a clam.
But I also knew those nerve blocks wear off after a day or two.
The worst was yet to come, and I only had one chance at saving our marriage
once I got home---more drugs.
To be specific, Percocet (generic name Oxycodone), which has
acquired a terrible and well-deserved reputation for its addictive qualities
and possibility of abuse. Understood. But at least for the next few weeks,
Percocet is my new best friend.
"You know your brain is just lying to you," my wife
said as I announced once again that my pain was very, very manageable.
"You're actually in horrible pain."
"I don't care," I replied. "I'm just grateful my
brain is an excellent liar, at least so far. I expected the worst, and I'm
doing just fine. I imagine you're feeling a little guilty about wanting to
send me to a rehab facility for six weeks."
"It was for two or three days, not six weeks," she
said as I kept her running around bringing me items, helping me up,
strapping on the ice machine, and basically waiting on me hand and foot.
"But six weeks isn't the worst idea."
I could see she needed a break. That's why I graciously gave
her time off from 11:45-12:30 on Sunday for a Mother's Day Brunch. I'm sure
she wanted to thank me, but I told her all thanks should go to Percocet.
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