The P.G. rated version has it that I was trying to rescue a kitten--for a couple of nuns--and fell out of a tree.  The real version, the rated M.A. for mature audiences version is a lot more colorful.  More interesting too.  And it didn’t have anything to do with kittens.  Not that kind anyway  But this is a family newspaper so we’ll go with the P.G. rating for today.

So there I was at the Presbyterian Hospital on Dec. 6, 1991 to have knee surgery.  Dr. Yates explained the situation to me in medical terms.  “Hink,” he said, “Your anterior cruciate ligament is ‘creamed’.”  In order to restore some stability to my right knee, he was going to cut out the middle third of my patellar tendon, use it to make a new ACL, and use screws to attach it to my shin bone on one end and my thigh bone on the other.

Now when I checked into the hospital that morning, I had two misconceptions about manliness.  One: a manly man doesn’t need pain medication.  He ignores pain.  And if he can’t, he chews on rawhide or bullets or something until it pass.  And, two: a manly man can ignore the anesthesia and stay awake for the operation if he chooses.  But a manly man will choose to go to sleep because he’s probably accidentally seen surgery on TV. and would as soon not be a spectator when he’s the patient.

So let me address the second misconception first. I don’t care how tough you are.  When your anesthesiologist want you to go to sleep, it’s lights out.  Period.  I’ve been under general anesthetic several times since then and each time, as an experiment, I try to decide for myself when to “surrender,” as the Greeks would say, “to the arms of Morpheus.”  No dice.  No matter how hard I try, I’m out when they say I’m out.  Manly discipline’s got nothing to do with it.

Now about the pain medication.  Prior to Dec. 6, 1991, I thought it was a “mind over matter” deal.  If you willed your pain to be gone and stuck by your guns, the pain would ultimately tire of the contest and leave you alone.

After surgery, they sent me home with a prescription to be taken every four to six hours for pain.  I was astounded at how the hands of the clock start to slow after three hours and twenty minutes.  I couldn’t will the pain to ease up and I couldn’t will the clock to speed up.  I was as much at the mercy of pain and time as I was at the mercy of the anesthesiologist’s skill.

So my first experience with surgery brought me fact to face with two possible conclusions.  First, maybe I wasn’t the manly man I thought I was.  Maybe a tougher guy could have defied the anesthesia and given himself over to sleep on his own terms.  Maybe a tougher guy could have laughed in the face of pain and turned a disdainful back to the crawling clock face.  Maybe, after all, I just wasn’t a manly man.  Naturally, I rejected this as a possible explanation of the facts.  There had to be something else.

The more likely conclusion is this.  A lesser man would have passed out from fear long before the anesthesia was administered.  A lesser man would have wept and begged for more and stronger pain medicines and would have taken them for a lot longer than I did.  A lesser man would have had no shame in filling his house with loud whining and bitter complaints.  To my credit, I can admit, now, that I’m embarrassed by that behavior.  Indeed, it’s possible a lesser man might not even have survived.

After long reflection and thorough soul searching, I’m ready to admit I was wrong about the irresistible power of anesthesia and I’m prepared to grant that even manly men should go ahead and take pain medication--if it will keep him from crying like a little baby.

In closing, I’ll remind you that tomorrow, Dec. 7, is the anniversary of the assassination of Cicero, the great Roman jurist, orator and philosopher.  He left us with many deep thoughts and wise sayings.  Here’s one of my favorites.  “One doesn’t have to believe everything one hears.”  Let me add--or everything one reads. 

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

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