Nov 25, 2022 4 min read

This holiday weekend will be spent off my feet.

Today I’m five days past surgery that repaired a torn meniscus in my right knee, and although there’s been almost no pain, I am doing a jump-and-scoot maneuver with a walker. I’ve found it’s easer than crutches.

The surgery itself was a breeze. I signed in at 6 and was home before noon. That the surgeon was able to accomplish the repair through three little holes in the knee confirmed he’s the best there is.

But I want to talk about the nurses, too. They got me through what could have been a much more unpleasant experience. From Cindy, who weighed me in and took off four pounds for my clothes, thank you – she waited outside the curtain and talked to me while I changed into the gown, and then told me my slightly elevated blood pressure was no big deal because most people come in there with anxiety.

Cindy tried to put in my IV line, but my veins were a quart low from fasting, so she held my hand while Sarah gave it a try.

“I’m sorry, we’re torturing you,” Cindy said as I did a vise grip on her hand.

“Squeeze as hard as you want, ” she said. “I was a labor and delivery nurse and have had my fingers broken.”

My veins wouldn’t open for Sarah either, and she said she was sorry. She called the anesthesiologist, who finally got the line in. Third time was the charm, and after that, everything was a blur.

I was last in an operating room 13 years ago, when I underwent surgery for endometrial cancer. The nurses who cared for me then, both male and female, escorted me through every scary phase like mothers of toddlers. I was never without a warm, reassuring nurse by my side. I would go so far as to say those six days in the hospital were a positive experience – because of the nurses (although the morphine helped, too.)

The nurses who administered my chemotherapy knew all the tricks, all the answers, all the ways to help me not feel like I’d been run over by a truck, fed airplane fuel and then put through a meat grinder. I’d dare say the nurses knew things the doctors didn’t know – the result of all those years answering calls from frantic patients, making them comfortable, making the ordeal more bearable. I think of those nurses still.

On Monday, I was lying in my cubicle thinking I’d taken a nap and would be headed in to the OR soon.

“Good morning,” Cindy said. “You’re all done. You did great.”

I’d slept through it all, of course. But I’d also been carried through it all, by the nurses.

As I waited in the wheelchair for my Dad to arrive to fetch me, Carol stayed with me. I was still pretty high, but she talked to me about that day’s Wordle game, showing me the screen and wondering if I could help. I was still pretty stoned and was not helpful, but I knew and appreciated that she was there to keep me company.

This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for so many things: for my parents for caring for me at home the first three days, for my kids for checking in from far away, for my friends for bringing me food and tending my place in my absence.

And of course, for my skilled surgeon who managed to save 80% of my meniscus, which means I have plenty of cycling years left in that knee. And to Cindy, Sarah, Carol, Emily, Maggie, Karen, Julie and Mary: You made a scary day not so scary at all. You are the best. Thank you.