A few weeks ago, I had surgery on my left knee. I was asked not to bring my own nightgown, and was assured that the very useful (and ugly) hospital night whatever-they-are would be exactly what was needed.

The printed fabric of the hospital nightshirts is bland, boring and plain. They have several ties to fasten them, and the ties bunch up if the patient moves, even a little bit, making lumps under your back.

Being in a gigantic hospital in Portland is like going to another universe. There is a department for everything, including phlebotomy. Somehow it all works, each part serving itself and interacting with all the other divisions.

The morning of my surgery, as they sent Clark away to receive a pager to notify him when my surgery was complete; he also received a complimentary beverage coupon. He wanted red wine, but settled for a cup of Seattle’s Best coffee instead.

The surgery took three hours, and I woke up right afterwards, ready to find out all the details and to visit with anyone willing to talk with me.

After I got to my room, there was good old stalwart Clark with anxiety and relief on his face.

During my stay there, I did an informal study in my head of all that was required to take care of a patient who had had knee surgery. I got to know the different shifts of nurses and certified nurses’ assistants. I had good chats with the physical therapists. I learned how to operate a painkiller pump

I did everything I could to speed up time, but each day seemed to last a week, and every night a little longer.

My incision is about 13 inches long, a little longer than it was when I had my knee replacement three years ago. As I write this, I am still sporting 35 staples and numerous bruises and remnants of tape. I am walking and doing my physical therapy, but it is a slow haul, and I still have another knee to go.

As I look back over the last two weeks, I realize I have done quite a lot and made good progress toward recovery. Toward the end of summer, I will have my right knee “done.”

I hope already having experienced the surgery, staying in a Portland hospital and taking trips up and down the gorge with my leg perched on pillows will make it easier next time.

—

Cynthia Hilden’s column appears every other week. She can be reached at cyhilden@msn.com