Steph’s Knee: The Final Frontier.

When I had my first orthopedic surgery in 1973, I was a mere twenty-one and, having been raised as a Christian Scientist, I knew next to nothing about medical matters. My idea of surgery was this. You went to sleep, doctors did their stuff and you woke up fresh as a daisy.

I was a college senior and I needed to finish up course work. I knew I would be in the hospital for a couple of weeks so I thought I could get some serious reading done. I brought the following books to the hospital: Paradise Lost, The Magic Mountain, Moby Dick and Selected Plays of Eugene O’Neill. You’ll recall that Hughie and A Moon for the Misbegotten are not laugh riots. My serious reading led to my being moved from a hospital ward to a private room. However, I didn’t read any of those books. The hospital was noisy. I was in pain. I’ve never quite acquired the knack of reading in bed.

My latest orthopedic surgery was about a month ago when I had a total left knee replacement. I spent a few days in the hospital (a social worker called to discuss my discharge plan a week before I was hospitalized) and two weeks in a very good rehab facility. But I’ve now had many orthopedic surgeries since my first and I’ve learned that Milton and morphia don’t mix.

Yes, I could spend my pre-op time worrying about surgical outcomes and how painful physical therapy might be (It smarts considerable) but it’s much more fun to obsess about what I might read. I don’t bring electronic devices to hospitals so I ditched my Kindle and went through my stock of mass market paperbacks. I put a whole pile of paperbacks where Bob could reach them. If one book didn’t work out he could bring another.

First, I tried a Maeve Binchy. I loved Light a Penny Candle and Echoes. I brought Whitethorn Woods with me to the hospital. Alas, after many attempts to lose myself in another world, I gave up. The lady next door to me who was attempting to smoke while she was on oxygen was much more interesting.

When I transferred to the rehab facility Bob brought a different set of books. I quickly seized on The Woman in White, one of my favorite novels. Surely, I could read this. How could I not be beguiled by multiple narrators and improbable plot twists? I made it through a couple chapters but went quickly to sleep.

I was well aware that the pain medication was interfering with my ability to read. I tripled my coffee intake. Normally if I want to get to sleep I can’t have coffee after about two in the afternoon. During my rehab stay I was drinking it at dinner time. Bob doesn’t like to see me bouncing off the walls in the evening. Luckily my hospital roommate thought me “bubbly and fun.”

Finally, I had some success. Dimly lit by caffeine, I picked up Christianna Brand’s
Suddenly in His Sleep. I’ve always liked Brand and this was a good old country mansion with eccentric family members who hate each other tale. I always feel vaguely at sea when I’m not reading a book so even though I was reading paragraphs rather than pages at a time, I was happy.

The nurse who was assigned to me in the evenings said to me, “Oh, I came in last night and you were sound asleep. I had to turn off the light and take off your glasses. I didn’t touch your book. I didn’t want to lose your place.”

That’s my kind of caregiver.

© 2014 Stephanie Patterson

Steph’s Knee ( with apologies to Eric Rohmer)

On Friday the 13th of September (Oh, blessed day!), I experienced the miracle of cortisone. An orthopedist injected my painful left knee. The encounter was short, straightforward and utterly uncharacteristic of any other orthopedic treatment I’ve received.

My initial encounters with surgeons were complicated by two factors. I was born with cerebral palsy. My parents were Christian Scientists.

At first my parents did seek medical treatments for me. I had courses of physical therapy and I wore leg braces. The leg braces were designed to keep my legs straight and my feet flat on the floor. They accomplished neither objective and I was exhausted from the weight of the metal.

Enter my paternal grandmother who was a Christian Science practitioner with near toxic levels of self assurance. She pointed out to my parents that doctors had not been helpful and if I would only experience God’s perfect love, I could be healed.

So the braces came off. My walk looked awkward, but it felt fine to me. (For readers who want an interactive experience, try the following: Rise up on your toes, turn those toes inward and walk). I went along like this from approximately age 8 to age 20. I sporadically attended Sunday School at the Christian Science Church and sometimes read the largely baffling “Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures” by Mary Baker Eddy.

I wasn’t healed and about 3 years into college I started getting stress fractures in my feet. I was out of school for 3 weeks the first time it happened. I begged my father to let me see a doctor. He left the house and I thought he was checking out what options the military provided for medical care. He returned home with a turntable and stereo speakers. I returned to school when it no longer hurt to walk.

Then I developed fractures again. My dad agreed to take me to the ER at Kimbrough Army Hospital at Fort Meade. The doctor doing triage was a cardiologist.

“I can’t help you,” he said. “But there’s an orthopedic surgeon who happens to be here tonight.”

I was then ushered into the presence of L. Fiske Warren, M.D., who appeared to be not in the least interested in my stress fractures.

“Could you walk for me, please?” he asked.

I walked back and forth several times and then sat down.

“You have some classic problems that surgery could take care of.”

I was stunned and my father was very nervous. He began to talk very quickly.

“Well, I’ve had to make a lot of decisions over the years about whether Stephanie should have surgery or continue her education.” Never did he mention Christian Science.

Dr. Warren ignored my father and directed all of his comments to me. He pointed out to me again that surgery could solve a lot of my problems. He also told me that if I continued to walk the way I was walking, I wouldn’t be walking at all by the time I was 40.

But I didn’t want surgery either. I was slated to go to graduate school the following year and had been nominated for several fellowships. I had to assure the granters of those fellowships that my disability would not get in the way of my accepting their much needed money.

When I left the ER, it was agreed that I would come to the hospital weekly to have my foot taped since casting it would only cause more fractures.

A podiatrist or one of his assistants would tape the foot, but Dr. Warren stopped by to talk to me every single week. (Full disclosure: Dr Warren was young and handsome) I continued to insist that I didn’t have time for surgery.

“Oh, I am on spring break for a couple of days next week,” I said, confident that there wouldn’t be enough time to schedule surgery.

“There’s a same day procedure I can do next week.”

The procedure was simple. I just didn’t have time for more surgery.

Then my father announced that he could provide no money for graduate school and by the way he was accepting a job in Seattle. I got honorable mention on several fellowships but no money. I just knew that if I went to Seattle, surgery would be forgotten.

So in my post op visit with Dr Warren I asked, “If I was available for surgery through next year (my military coverage ran out at age 22), what could you do?”

When I finally left for graduate school the following year my legs were straight and my feet were flat on the floor.

My father went to his job in Seattle and only called once to see how I was doing (during a party I was having so that all my friends would remark on what a concerned parent he was). My Christian Scientist grandmother rarely saw us and was told I was having a “little surgery.” My mother was very anxious about all of it:

“He’s awfully young, Stephanie. Do you think he’s done this before?”

“So what if he hasn’t; he has to start somewhere.”

I haven’t talked to Dr. Warren in many years. He took metal out of my hip at Roosevelt Hospital in the late 1970s and from what Google tells me, he’s now at Coney Island Hospital.

Because of him I’m still able to walk and I expect clear explanations of everything when I talk to medical professionals. I think those both count as gifts that keep giving.

© 2013 Stephanie Patterson