I Hate Surgery

I hate surgery. At its heart, my struggles mirror the fundamental issues most of us face when confronted with hospitals, doctors, and surgeries. I am afraid. I feel out of control. I don’t know who I can trust. I want to be whole. I don’t like being vulnerable. I feel alone. Besides, general anesthesia always makes me sick (quite literally). I know most doctors are competent, yet I resist placing so much trust in one person (not to mention a virtual stranger) that I allow her to knock me unconscious and then cut my body open with an extremely sharp instrument.

It is tempting to simply live with discomfort or even pain rather than subject myself to this scenario.
Despite all my fears, three weeks ago I had surgery on my knee. Unfortunately it hasn’t been a pleasant experience, reinforcing in my mind the uncertainty of any surgery, the risks inherent in our health care system, and the necessity of having supportive people to advocate and care for me.

The problem was a bursa sac just below my kneecap that over the past three years has periodically swollen up with fluid for no discernible or diagnosable reason. At first it was a novelty — painless, interesting to poke at, and, at least with my nieces and nephews, a unique conversation piece. Over time as the swelling worsened and became more constant, it was annoying, then uncomfortable, and then painful. I couldn’t kneel on even soft surfaces and my knee felt hot and tight. Doctors aspirated the bursa sac twice. The first time the fluid returned in three days, and the second time it was back the next morning. Clearly this problem was not going away on its own and was getting progressively worse over time.

I was told the surgery to correct the problem was relatively simple and uncomplicated. Although it requires general anesthesia, it is an outpatient surgery and I go home the same day. The surgeon removes the bursa sac and I’m walking again in a week and back to normal activity in a couple of weeks. Long-term repercussions are essentially non-existent, consisting mainly of discomfort when kneeling on hard surfaces. Basically I trade a bump for a two- to three-inch scar down the center of my knee, but I no longer have the continual swelling and pain. Reluctantly, I agree to undergo the surgery and have the bursa sac removed.

When I went for the pre-op testing, I was specifically asked who would be accompanying me the day of the surgery. The hospital has discovered that patients with a companion always do better during the operation and have fewer anxieties and complications. Then, too, if anything goes wrong there is a trusted person immediately at hand. I was struck by the thought that not everyone has a companion who can spend a day at the hospital with them. Many people have no immediate family in the area. They rely on friends, but most of their friends would either have to take a precious vacation day from work or arrange for an outside babysitter all day. What do people do when they are truly alone? As I glanced around the waiting room at the diverse population awaiting their turn to go under the knife, I felt a shiver go through me. I turned my attention back to the woman behind the desk and with relief I told her my husband would be there for me. (And yes, he was taking a precious vacation day from work.)

The day of the surgery went just as planned. The anesthesiologist was thorough and gracious, checking my records for previous anesthesia combinations and reassuring me that I wouldn’t get sick this time. To my great delight, he was right. It was wonderful to wake up without nausea and in fact to have crackers and apple juice in the recovery room. Perhaps, I thought, surgery isn’t so bad any more.

Since the surgery, though, things have been anything but simple and uncomplicated. There was a great deal more bruising, swelling, pain, and disability than I expected. My knee swelled up to twice its normal size, and for several days I was on crutches, unable to bend my leg at all. I depended on regular pain medication, first the narcotic variety and then three ibuprofen tablets every four hours - and this by a woman who even resists headache medication if I think I can manage without.

Again I thought of those who are alone. I had no clue based on the pre-op explanation that I would require so much help over the weekend after my surgery. My husband and son were wonderful, waiting on me and making me as comfortable as possible. But what if I had no one to care for me? What if I were elderly? How would I have managed the weekend without caring people surrounding me?

I have re-learned many lessons about pain and disability. I am by nature a care-giver. While I enjoy being pampered when I am well, I dislike being forced into the role of care receiver. It is humbling and frustrating to be unable to put on a sock or a shoe, take a shower, or drive a car. I tire of asking other people to do things for me, especially when sometimes I suspect they are tired of the requests. After all, my family and friends are accustomed to having me be a competent, capable, in-control person, and it is as hard for them to adjust their expectations as it is for me. A few days is fine, but the longer this goes on the more we all want things to return to normal.

I have also noticed an interesting phenomenon. People were very solicitous of me right after the surgery. When I was on crutches, when I had a huge wrap around my knee — in other words when it was immediately obvious that something was wrong — people on the sidewalk would step aside to make room for me, people in the store would sympathetically ask if I was OK, kids would ask what happened, clerks offered to do anything they could do to help (even when I was accompanied by others), and strangers offered to pray for my healing.

Yet people I know who live with chronic disability find the opposite. When the disability is not temporary but permanent, solicitous behavior is rare. More commonly people look away, get embarrassed, shush their children, and do whatever they can to avoid an encounter. When people do offer to help, they too often are more condescending than sincere, treating the person like a baby rather than a mature, intelligent and capable person whose body doesn’t fully function. My level of compassion is stretched yet again, as is my frustration at the intolerance and ignorance of our society toward anyone who does not fit a very narrow definition of beauty, youth, and perfection.

It is now a full three weeks post-surgery — the point at which I expected to be back to normal. I am not even close. I have constant discomfort and often outright pain. I cannot squat or bend my knee very far, and even regular walking or going down stairs elicits winces and groans. The pain is not limited to the surgery site, but extends several inches away from the incision. There is still fluid visible under the skin. I struggle with the fear that by agreeing to undergo this supposedly simple operation I have permanently damaged my knee.

My fears, of course, are based in my expectations. I was told I’d be back to normal activity in three weeks. I am not, and so my frustration, impatience, and worry levels kick into high gear. If, on the other hand, I had been told to expect a full six weeks before my knee would feel normal again, I’d be delighted that at only three weeks I am doing this well. I am trying now to adjust my expectations. Most surgeries, after all, do require 6 — 8 weeks of recuperation. I need to recover my patience and wait for my body to heal itself.

As I face the uncertain hope that I will indeed heal back to normal, I also wrestle with the fact that I was given these expectations in the first place. Do I trust the doctor who said this surgery would be simple and uncomplicated? Do I believe everything else this doctor tells me? Should I have done more research before the surgery to find the best doctor available? Yet if everyone wants only the best doctor, who decides? Is it those with the most money or the best insurance who get in? And how is the “best doctor” chosen? In our present health care system, how do we know who to believe? I find more questions than answers, more uncertainty than reassurance.

My greatest consolation in this experience is not the doctors or the medical care system. My strength comes first of all from my faith. I know that God is faithful and no matter what happens God will work with me to bring resurrection. I have experienced the paschal mystery over and over again in my life, and I place my ultimate trust in the promises it entails.

Secondly, my strength comes from other people, both those in my immediate circle and those beyond. In this regard, I consider myself many times blessed. My family and friends have, of course, stayed by my side encouraging me, caring for me, and lifting me up when I couldn’t do it for myself. As the Passionists, the Stauros board members, and others in the Stauros family found out about the surgery they, too, have been gracious and supportive.
It is too early to know where this story will end. I do know the experience has made me more appreciative of my health and able functioning, of my faith, and of the marvelous people who love and care for me. My level of compassion is once again stretched, and I find myself recommitting with renewed zeal to the work of this organization for all who suffer. Stauros cannot solve the problems, but together perhaps we can manage them better, understand them more deeply, and walk through them to resurrection.