Curious Huffyman Gets His knee Scoped

When I was a little huffyboy and was getting ready to have my tonsils removed, I was given a copy of “Curious George Goes to the Hospital”. It was a great introduction for me as to what to expect at the hospital but mostly it made me excited for the popsicles I would get when it was all over. Spoiler alert: They don’t give you popsicles for knee surgery.

Bobbi, my next door neighbor, volunteered to be my driver and caretaker for the day so I could completely focus on crying and whining about my torn meniscus. On the way to the hospital I shared my deepest fears about hospitals and pain and childhood injustices. She was such a good listener and really calmed me with her understanding nods and smiles. When I told her where we needed to park at the hospital, she pulled an ear phone out of her ear and asked, “What did you say?” What a kidder.

Natalie, the surgical center receptionist, met Bobbi and me very politely. With a friendly smile, she asked me to fill out a medical history form. After filling out the form and detailing allergies and mental issues and seizures, I asked Natalie if she had anything for writer’s cramp. I noticed a sign on the counter offering interpreters. I asked for a German interpreter. Natalie explained that German did not seem to be my native language. I pointed out that the sign said nothing about that requirement. She laughed a polite laugh that told me I was not going to get an interpreter. Then she sweetly handed me a card with her name at the top and very nicely asked me to answer the questions on the card and place the completed card in a box. It was an evaluation of her services. I wrote that I did not feel Natalie took my request for an interpreter seriously and turned the card in. It helped take the edge off the disappointment I was feeling.

Next I was heighted and weighed. The weighing part was fun. I only weighed 93 pounds on their scale. There was a kg after the number. Not sure what that means, but I know I like the hospital ‘kg’ scale a lot better than the one I have at home!

The doctor was an hour behind schedule. This wasn’t typical of the Dr. Greg Hicken with whom I have ridden many mountain bike trails in Utah. One of my favorite “Dr. Greg” stories was one where I had returned to the parking area after wimping out on a hard ride and I waited for the rest of the hard-core group to return. First back was Greg, by himself. After about 5 minutes of chatting, all the rest of the riders appeared in a group. In the ensuing discussion about why he got back so soon, this guy who I was today trusting to use his best judgment while cutting my knee apart explained, “The sun was in my eyes and I couldn’t see which way the trail went, so I just guessed. I guess I made some good guesses today.” I just hoped that the bright surgical lamps didn’t get in his eyes today…

When the time finally came, the anesthesiologist had me sign some paper that said something about him trying his best to keep me alive and then he wheeled my bed down to the operating room. This was apparently a part of his job he thoroughly enjoyed, as he had orderlies scrambling out of the way and told me to make ambulance sounds for the corners. When we entered the brightly lit, temperature-challenged operating room, the anesthesiologist said, “Welcome to our meat locker”, in reference to the coldness I assumed. Then he told me there was a side of “beef” hanging in the corner, out of my sight. I asked if it was the last patient. No one laughed. I felt the beginning of a scream…

The kind anesthesiologist put a mask over my mouth and told me it would make me feel a little loopy. I assured him no one would notice any difference. I heard Dr. Greg agree with me somewhere in the background. While the kind doctor was sharpening knives on a grindstone, he asked about the music playing through the overhead speakers. It was something by Brad Paisley. I said I liked his song about fishing. The music changed and the last thing I remember was singing along with everyone in the room, “…I’mmmmm gonna miss her!!”, my favorite part of one of my favorite songs. Dark mist enveloped the meat locker as the blue-clad people gathered around my bed. As consciousness slipped away, I remembered the nurse asking earlier if it was my left knee that was getting cut open. I had answered, “Right”. I desperately want to tell her that I meant to say “Yes!” but all the lights went out…

I remember the sweet sounds of a long forgotten lullaby being sung to me as I awoke… Then more clarity came and I realized it was a nurse telling me something that I did not understand. Then I reached as far as I could and was able to feel my leg and was relieved to find it had not been amputated. The nurse slapped my hand and told me to keep my hands off the person next to me. After a few minutes of delusion and disorientation in the recovery room, I was wheeled back to where I started and to where Bobbi was waiting patiently for me. The nurses made me drink water and then get up and walk around on crutches before they would let me go. I heard some of the nurses taking bets on how far I would get down the hall before I fell. It appears Dr. Greg had been sharing stories about my mountain biking ineptitude. I think the dark-haired nurse in green won the pool because she cheered the loudest when I

lost control near the cool “kg” scale.

After a friendly parting by Natalie (she hadn’t seen my survey answers yet) and a high five from the dark-haired nurse in green, I got the obligatory wheelchair ride to the car and away we drove. Curious George would have been proud.