My hospital fantasy

I’m getting knee surgery on Tuesday. And I need your help.

What should I do with my week on the couch?

Remember that thing I wrote a while back? About people fantasizing about going into the hospital, just to get a break, because they were so stressed out? I put together a poll, and found out that close to half of us harbor secret hospital fantasies. (When I first wrote about the results, only 37% of the people who responded said they had hospital fantasies, but I left the poll open. I just checked it now and the numbers have shifted to 45%.)

I didn’t have a hospital fantasy then. I’m too much of a control freak to relax and leave my physical well-being to strangers. Which is why I’ve been waking in a cold sweat at 2 A.M., worrying about the surgery.

I know I’m a wuss. This surgery is minor compared to a lot of other things people endure. There’s no need to get worked up. I keep trying to remind myself that I’ve had two babies. How bad can a little knee surgery be? At least I don’t have to push a baby out of my knee.

I have a torn meniscus, in case you’re wondering. If you know knee injuries, you know that this is not an exotic one. Everyone and her mother has had a torn meniscus. It’s no big deal. They can fix them now. They knock you out, poke a couple holes, insert a camera and a teeny tiny little surgical instrument or two. Takes half an hour.

The doctor said I’m not supposed to walk for more than a week afterward. Most of that time is to be spent on the couch, lying on my back, with my foot over my head. (Toes above the nose!)

Brian is all geared up for taking on child care and household duties. I’m taking the week off of the project I’m working on, and trying to see this as an opportunity, a hospital fantasy kind of opportunity.

It turns out, there are a lot of things you can do with your toes above your nose. Things that you want to do but usually don’t have time for, like

• Learn Portuguese
• Practice new forms of meditation
• Teach oneself how to use Axure (a prototyping tool I need to learn for my work)
• Read the classics and improve one’s mind
• Write the essay you’ve been wanting to pitch for Modern Love
• Make lots of phone calls and catch up with old friends

But maybe I should see this as an opportunity to tame my restless nature. To yield to the healing process and the painkillers, and do something completely out of character for a Type-A like me: Watch a ton of movies.

So I’m taking suggestions. Movies I should rent? Trashy novels I should read? Has anyone had a restorative hospital fantasy with advice to share?

* * *

Update: After I originally posted this, my dad, (who faithfully reads my blog from his home in the great state of Connecticut), sent me this email about my grandfather’s torn meniscus when he was a WWII fighter pilot. It was a very sweet way of saying, ‘Buck up, kid.’

Thanks, Dad, for putting it all in perspective.

Katrina,

Your Grandfather Johnny had a torn menicus when he ditched a plane in the South Pacific. This left a piece of cartilage floating around in the knee gumming up the works. The doctor called it a “Joint Mouse” as a medical homage to the small rodent which seemed, in the forties, to be able to get in and out of anywhere (where there were no cats). A “joint mouse” was a danger because, while floating around it could accidentally position itself in such a way that the leg would not bend or straighten. If he was piloting the plane at the time, the war effort in the South Pacific could be compromised. The nearest hospital was occupied by the Japanese. The doctor gave dad a swig of whisky for the pain, cut just below the kneecap with a scalpel and lifting the kneecap, withdrew the loose cartilage with medical forceps. Dad had the weekend to rest up.

You carry on a family tradition which means you are in league with history.

Medical Science is going further with you than with my father. They have repaired your meniscus, not withdrawn it with forceps.

This was the stuff of science fiction when I was a young man. But today is 2011; your doctor has done this thousands of times; he probably does four a day, 44 weeks a year. He can do this in his sleep. This is routine.

Love,

Dad

Tagged as: hospital fantasy, time, vacation, working moms