Aging less than gracefully

by Brad Nelson

My father once mused, “It’s the dickens to get old.” That’s not verbatim, but if I quoted him verbatim, the editor would have to edit this for appropriate language. He also asked me when I was about twelve and needing a physical for Boy Scout camp, if it would bother me to have our regular family doctor give me this exam, which would include the traditional check for a hernia. Our regular family doctor was a wonderful person named Dr. Elizabeth Munn. Her office was in Caldwell, Idaho.

One of the stories told about this six-foot-tall lady, was that a cowboy from Jordan Valley, Oregon came in to get a tetanus shot. The good doctor told him to sit down for a few minutes after the shot before he left, just to make sure he didn’t have a reaction to it. He rolled his shirtsleeve down over the shot site, and stated that he was a genuine Jordan Valley cowboy, and thank you Ma’am; no little old tetanus shot would do him any harm. A few minutes later, an excited individual came to the doctor’s office and asked if a cowboy had just left. It seemed that there was, about half a block from the office, a pile of unconscious cowboy. Dr. Munn came down from her second-story office, and recognizing the young cowboy, picked him up and threw him over her shoulder like a sack of flour and carried him back up to her office. When he woke up, he asked how he got back here, and was told that the doctor had carried him back here. And furthermore, he was told that he was going to stay right where he was, because the good doctor had no intention of carrying him back up those stairs again. All he could say was an embarrassed “Yes, Ma’am.” By the way, a male doctor gave me the Scout camp physical.

Some years later, I was unloading hay at my dairy. As I picked up a bale, the strings snapped, which threw me off balance, and I noticed the ground coming up toward me fast. I managed to get my feet to hit the ground first, and tried to do the paratrooper landing of letting the knees bend on touchdown to cushion the fast stop. I thought I had done good, with the knees having bent, allowing me to roll backwards. My big concern was as to the whereabouts of the hay bale I had last had a hold of ... until a bad pain, just below one knee, registered in my brain. Then I realized that my dad, who was recovering from suspected heart problems, was running a tractor and scraper for me somewhere near. I got up and hobbled over to where he was. My concern was that he had seen me fall and that the sight would be rough on his heart. He had missed the downward flight.

Instead of going to have it checked out, I called a friend who happened to be a doctor. His suggestion was to elevate it and ice it, since everything still moved as it should and was not deformed in any way. If it was not noticeably better the next morning, he told me to go in and have it x-rayed (the next morning, boy-oh-boy, was it ever not better). My friend thought that I might have fractured the small bone of the lower leg just below the knee. When the receptionist at the emergency room asked what I needed, I stated that I thought I had a broken leg. She replied something to the effect of, “Yea, right. I just saw you walk in here!” The x-ray confirmed a simple fracture. The doctor opted for a “soft” cast. Attempting to put my pants back on to leave, I complained that I couldn’t bend my leg to get my trousers on. “That’s the idea of the soft cast,” he replied, “To keep you from bending your knee.” About a week later, I had it massaged so that I could drive the hay truck. After all, the cows had to eat.

Just a couple of years ago, the doctors wanted me to swallow a camera, so they could have a good look at the source of some continual and annoying heartburn. They didn’t want me awake while they did this. I showed up at the appointed time and place, with Elli there for comfort, and to ensure to the hospital staff that I wouldn’t be driving myself home afterward. I was their last project of the day, and everything they did prior took longer than expected. They had me get into one of those standard issue backless body covers, and then started an IV in my arm.

Since the staff knew about the delays, and I didn’t, the diversion of choice was to wager on how many times they could make me need the rest room before the doctor got ready for me. They hooked up about a five-gallon bag of fluid that went right through my system. I asked how I was supposed to get to the little room with the IV attached. I was told that it was on wheels, and to take it with me. Elli consented to walk with me, wheeling the IV stand, so I could try to cover my backside for the journey. Ready to go, I looked up and down the hall. When the coast seemed as clear as it was going to be, I did a rapid “tiptoe” across the hall to the little room. Elli tried to hold a straight face as she told me to act like every other patient was acting, or she would leave me there alone. Three hours and fifteen trips across the hall later, they took me in to swallow the camera.

My knees began sounding like a gravel crusher not just a few years ago. But here lately, as I walked through the Walmart parking lot, they were setting off car alarms. The discomfort level got to where it was an effort to not be grouchy all day every day. I found myself back in the “get ready to go to sleep room.” After covering my front side with the usual gown, and sitting on my backside, I was offered a blanket to keep warm. I replied that I was just fine. Elli told me I needed a blanket. When I was sure there was no one else present, I crossed my legs, and asked her what the problem was. She got up, procured a blanket, unfolded it, threw it around by lower half, and I was told to behave myself or walk home, surgery on both knees or not. I stayed under the blanket.

Then I made another mistake. When the nurse came to start my IV, I mentioned that Elli spent a lot of time teaching emergency medicine people how to start IV’s. The veins on the back of my hands stand out nicely, and I’ve learned that when Elli is teaching a class, to keep my hands in my pockets, or I’ll be used for “practice.” For some reason, this discussion rattled the poor lady, and it took two tries before she hit blood. If there’s a next time, I’ll make sure to tease the help after they’re done using sharp things on my body.

In my toolbox, there is an attachment to the grease gun that is actually a grease zerk attached to a hypodermic needle. It is useful for getting grease into very tiny places. Like under the dust cover of a “sealed” roller bearing that has gone dry. When a couple of the young men on my crew saw it, they asked what it was. I held a straight face, and had them listen to the noise my knees made. I told them I had to put some grease in my knees every couple of months. They didn’t believe me. When they found out I was going to have my knees operated on, one smiled and said, “You should have greased them every week!” PD