(Persistence of Memory- Salvador Dali.)

So, the last thing I remember was looking at the Ultrasound of the femoral sponge in my left leg. The sun out the window of the triage bay was high. Goofing with the anesthesia team was fun, I suppose, if you like science projects being carried out on the frail vessel wherein you live, and then the hallucinations came as consciousness began to return in the Post-Op department at Walter Reed. It was not so much the melted pocket watches of a Dali oil; it was much more like alternate universes in which I had done, or not done, the things that brought me to this strange place, all of them marching off into a hall of mirrors.

I was introduced to my brain’s reptilian core first, I imagine, since I recalled talking to my folks first, and then thinking that the whole surgical thing was an illusion. Exchanging one reality slowly for another, I found the regional anesthetic was performing as advertised- the place that was going to screw up my guts in pain in a few hours was just fine, and other parts of my life began to float back.

Interesting, in a vague way, like the movement of the rolling bed back up to Ward Five Central, and floor space in room 16, spot “B.”

I like the fact that today’s medicine does not view pain as something useful in the healing process. The staff was solicitous in getting me narcotics as desired to combat pain. And then began the struggle to escape from the clutches of the United States Military, something that is much easier in concept than execution.

See, they had attached these two plastic bulbs to shunts placed deep in the recently-opened wounds in the knee. They appeared very similar to those plastic limes that are sold to liven up our Vodka Tonics, and uncomfortably like the contents of the V8 juice they brought me with ice chips to attempt to re-hydrate. The bulbs filled up every four hours like clockwork with an ominous viscous red fluid they told me consisted of white cells and blood and fat.

They were letting me go nowhere until the flow diminished, and so we were off on a long fevered dream interrupted by the regular taking of vital signs, the administering of Percocet and a couple other drugs, and whatever happened to be showing on the television screen that hung suspended by the bed.

On and off, the hallucinations continued. Some were cool, others weird, and some were just challenges to the nature of my reality string. I enjoyed it, for the most part, except for the dramatic change in post-op instructions. First report from Staff was that weight bearing on the reconstructed leg was fine, and would be over the six weeks of recovery and physical therapy. I vowed to comply, and hobbled with some astonishing twinges up my leg and thorax to the bathroom a few times as my body tried to shed the chemicals that had sealed it up while on the table.

Then in the morning, a slight change. “No weight on the leg whatsoever, and that is twelve weeks, Buster.” I did not appear to have damaged the recent repairs, and I adjusted accordingly.

The Marine came by to de-brief me on The Process at Rounds the next morning. Really a cool guy, I thought, and I was interested to learn that the surgical procedure had taken an hour or more longer than anticipated. Papa Doc had to get his fingers way up under the musculature of the quads to fish out the ruptured tendons, which were healing up in a manner that would have left the knee unattached to anything else in particular.

“No shit,” I said in wonder. “So then what?”

“Four holes drilled in the patella, and some shoe-lace thingies to connect the quads back through the knee and anchor it below the joint.”

“Those must be the technical terms,” I said. “Cool,” I said. “Did it work?”

He nodded. “Seems to. But no motion and no weight on it. Follow instructions. Relax and heal. We will get to the therapy part when things are stable.” I waved goodbye, marveling at a process in which The Marine, Baby Doc and Papa Doc had shared such a profound intimacy with my body, me unaware the whole time.

He waved back as he turned to get back to the business of fixing warriors to go back to active duty, or to some role in the wider world.

All things pass away eventually, including us, and I was with immeasurable relief that Dr. Kim reached down to the shunts and said “this is going to feel weird” as he gently tugged and in response, my genitals retreated to the comfort and privacy of my body cavity.

I had to agree with him. It was weird.

Just as weird as having someone so young be so confident about the handling of your body.

Then they let me escape. Rolling down the Beltway later, sprawled across the back seat of an efficient SUV, in the company of friends who had agreed to enable my liberation, I realized I had left the hospital too early.

But c’est la vie. Freedom ain’t free, is it?

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra

www.vicsocotra.com

Oh, I signed up for a monthly donation to the Wounded Warrior Project a while back. I am not one, but I sure did see some kids close up whose courage inspires me. If you want to help a member of another extraordinary generation of Americans, think about doing the same. You can learn more here.