We’ve been married forty-five years and Barbara needs two knee replacements, but she doesn’t want to do it. A friend told her, “I had one knee done. Then I had the second knee done. It hurt so bad that, if I’d had a third leg, I’d have just said, ‘cut it off!’”

One doctor told Barbara, “We won’t replace your knee until it hurts.” But both knees are hurting more now, joint deterioration makes her walk bowlegged, and she can’t fully straighten her right leg. The time has come.

Friday, Sept. 11. Today, we meet with Dr. Heller, a fortyish, peripatetic, ADHD kind of guy who doesn’t bother changing out of his scrubs when he shuttles between surgery and office consultations. All marsupial, with instruments hanging from his sagging pockets, he seems confident when he reassures us, “I think you should do the knees now.”

Reluctantly Barbara agrees, but she asks, “Should I do one at a time, or both together?”

Dr. Heller, being a 21^st century doctor who believes in patient free will, says, “It’s your call. I can do both at the same time—it’ll take about three hours. Or, we can do them one at a time.”

She seems uncertain, hesitates, but then shocks me when she says, “Let’s do them both at the same time!” Of course, I agree. Why go through the whole thing twice?

Barbara asks, “When you do both at once, do you make sure they’re the same length?”

I interrupt. “Actually, could you make one leg shorter? It’ll keep her closer to home.” (Dr. Heller laughs; Barbara rolls her eyes so hard they must hurt.)

Barbara has a certain fascination for dark scenarios, and asks, “What can go wrong with this operation?”

“Oh, it’s routine,” Dr. Heller says. “The only things we have to watch out for are infections, low hemoglobin, stressed kidneys, unregulated blood pressure, pneumonia, unstaunched bleeding, or blood clots that can go to your brain and give you a stroke and kill you.”

Somehow, Barbara doesn’t seem reassured. And I have images of blood transfusions, staph infection, or paralysis, but I tell her, “Dr. Heller does these operations each day and besides, all those side-affects are rare!” We pencil in “January 19” for the operation.

The operation

Friday, Sept. 18. It’s been a week since seeing Dr. Heller, and Barbara’s knee pain is increasing. She calls his assistant, Megan, to see if she can possibly get in earlier. Megan says, “I’ll put you on a waiting list in case someone cancels.”

Barbara says, “I’m already on the waiting list.”

“Okay. I’ll put you at the top of the list!”

Then, through a small miracle, Megan finds an earlier opening—October 20, so we immediately book it.

Tuesday, Oct. 20, 10:30 a.m. Today is the day. I drive Barbara to United Hospital and soon find myself standing by her gurney. When I take her hand I pray, “O Lord, we commit Barbara into your care. Give her peace. Guide the doctor’s skillful hands.” They wheel her away with a smile on her face. I will not see her again for hours.

My loyal friend Bill has come to vigil with me as we sit helplessly in the waiting room watching the clock nibble away the hours—11:30. 12:30. 1:30. 2:30. I start wondering what’s going on. Then the computer screen in the waiting room says, “B. Hurd, recovery room.” I’m relieved—the operation is over.

3:00 p.m. Dr. Heller pops in and tells us, “We did the right leg first, then the left. For each leg, I made a six-inch curved incision inside the knee, pushed aside the knee cap, along with the muscles and tendons, and installed a metallic piece on the bottom end of the femur. Then we cut off the end of the tibia, drilled a hole down into it, pushed in the artificial knee, and sewed everything up. It went great!” He reminds me of my mechanic explaining my car repairs.

(A month after the operation, Barbara will tell me, “I want to see a video of the operation.”

I say, “No, you don’t!” She never did.)

Dr. Heller says, “She’s in recovery for an hour or so. Then we’ll transfer her to her room and you can go up and see her.”

5 p.m. They have wheeled Barbara up to her sixth-floor hospital room. I walk in, and see her in a field of white—supine, inert, surrounded by machines. Both knees are wrapped and bandaged. Saline solution drips down an IV tube stuck into the back of her hand. An oxygen clip glows on her finger. They’re following her pulse and blood pressure. She’s wearing a wan smile. I carefully embrace her, and tell her I’m so glad to see her.

While we’re talking, I look around her crowded room. On her small table sits her cell phone, Kleenex, medications, water, and a floral bouquet. A wheelchair is folded against the back wall under the window beside her walker and knee-exercising machine. The commode-chair sits by the bed. All that long night I sleep beside her on the couch

Wednesday, Oct. 21. When I wake, Barbara says, “My knees are working, but I can’t raise the toes on my left foot.” It’s true. She tries in vain to bend her toes up, but cannot even move them. They’re already talking about a foot brace.

They had given her OxyContin for her pain, but she threw up this morning. So today they stop the OxyContin and start Dilaudid, another narcotic painkiller.

But the Dilaudid makes her irrational. She can’t answer questions such as, “Who’s the President of the United States?”

“She’s a Republican,” I tell the nurse. “Try another question.” The unsmiling nurse sees no humor in this.

Thursday, Oct. 22. They reduce the Dilaudid, and her mind clears. But she still cannot lift her left toes. The doctor is eager to get her walking and exercising, so he orders a simple brace that fits inside her shoe that will help her lift her foot.

She’s discomfited, just lying in bed. I rub her back, get stuff for her—lozenges, pillows, Kleenex, and her huge tackle-box makeup kit. I adjust the bed angle, adjust her knee exerciser, call the nurse, comb her hair, order her meal, dial numbers for her, arrange flowers and cards sent by well-wishers, sort her mail, restock her water, fetch things. I feel very busy.

I gaze through the window and see St. Paul’s topping the hill, its dome rising above the maples that glow in autumn’s lambent light, dragging their leaves like nets through the windy air. I have lots of time to ponder my own mental inscape. I feel thankful for Barbara’s good care.

Friday, Oct. 23. Good news—Barbara can now lift her left toes!—her foot seems to work perfectly now. We are thankful for this answer to our prayers. One leg is lying on the knee exerciser—straighten, flex, straighten, flex. She’s blowing into the spirometer to improve her breathing and prevent pneumonia, and is transitioning from the wheelchair to walker. Today, her bulky bandage wraps come off her knees. I stare at the tumid, purple incisions with their small butterfly bandages. The alien-angled knees are now in perfect alignment.

Dr. Heller proclaims that Barbara is ready for the rehab center—we can transfer her tomorrow. Her begin organizing her medicines and collecting all her stuff.

Rehab exercise

Saturday, Oct. 24. I push Barbara’s wheelchair to the elevator and then outside to the waiting ambulance. The driver locks the wheelchair to the floor, and whisks off. I follow them in our car.

The Interlude staff welcomes us. Interlude is a rehabilitation center near Unity Hospital in Fridley, run by Allina Health and the Catholic Benedictine order. An in-house chef prepares your meals to order (although Barbara doesn’t have much appetite). I get free coffee. The nurses and aides are attentive, compassionate women—mostly African, or African-American. They install her in a semi-private room. That would be a room where the patient in the adjacent room finishes your sentences. We hear the garrulous woman next door bellowing at the nurse, “I’ve worked very hard on my health… I want to know everything you’re doing” (insistent, demanding.) I think, How can the aides be so patient with her!

Saturday, Nov. 7. Barbara’s now had two weeks of rehab. I sense she wants me to stop in frequently—I visit three times today. As I walk from the entry door toward the elevator, I notice Lisa, the no-nonsense reception lady. Pleasant, but professional, she takes her job seriously. She points to a sign on her desk—“Please sign in and out.” I sign. But, when Lisa’s not sitting there, I don’t sign. Later, I confess to her my careless disregard—but I still don’t change my behavior. I remember the 60s mantra—“Question authority.”

I elevator up to the second floor. Barbara is now using her cane to walk herself down to PT, which she calls “physical torture.” It’s good seeing her progress—knees bending 109^o on right and 118^o on the left. Some redness and swelling on her right knee. The 20-something occupational therapist bounces in, and asks me if I have any questions. I tell her, “If she gives you any trouble, just call me. Make sure she can cook and do laundry before she leaves, because there’s no competent person at home.” Barbara just smiles. (My bacheloring during this time will have to wait for another story.)

Many friends visit. Barbara accommodates them, hoisting her pant legs so they can carefully inspect the healing scars. They bear gifts—orchids, roses, snapdragons. And chocolate. I reason that chocolate may hinder Barbara’s recovery, so I confiscate it all, planning to consume it before she’s discharged.

Tuesday, Nov. 10. Barbara is sending signals she’s getting better—she says she’s bored, she’s resurrecting her “To Do” lists (one for herself and of course, one for me), she’s phoning people to re-energize her social network, and (the greatest sign) she’s reviving her interest in our tortured church politics. The swelling in her knee and calf is subsiding. At her care conference today, all agree that she will go home on Thursday. The staff doctor reviewed her prescriptions (side effects, doses), and then said, “But I know you’ll do what you want to, anyway.” She must know Barbara well.

Homecoming

Thursday, Nov. 12. Today’s homecoming day! It’s been 23 days since Barbara’s surgery. I dollop a gob of icy-hot on her lower back and rub it in, help her brush her teeth, and walk her to the bathroom. She uses her walker to walk to the elevator, and then out to our waiting car. I have put a foam pillow in the passenger seat with a plastic bag on top to help slide her in and out. We put all her stuff in the car—clothes, flowers, gifts, walker, cane, a flexible plastic rod to help her with her leg lift exercises, and a grabber to get stuff she may not be able to reach.

We stop by Walmart to buy Tramadol (an opioid painkiller) and Midnight Melatonin, a natural sleep aid. Driving into our garage for the first time in three weeks, she opens our house door and says, “It’s so great coming home!”

“What’s for dinner?” I ask her. She ignores me.

Actually, I don’t mind making meals, but I keep them simple, and don’t dirty too many dishes.

That evening, Barbara banishes me from the master bedroom. She says, “I toss at night and get up a lot. You’ll sleep better if you’re in the guest room.” Okay…

Saturday, Nov. 14 Piercing pain in her right knee wakes Barbara up tonight. She’s depressed and sometimes crying. Her new knees provide the greatest challenge, but she’s also feeling back pain, and stomach upset from the strong meds. She walks well with the walker. She likes the grab bars I installed in the shower.

I schedule our new routine—three outpatient therapy visits per week, picking up meds at the pharmacy, calling the nurse, and resuming our visits to the Y, where she uses her walker to circle the exercise track.

Wednesday, Nov. 18. We’re going out together now, and Barbara enters the grocery store walker-less—the shopping cart provides enough support. Lois the massage therapist stops in today to give Barbara a one-and-a-half-hour massage. I think, Spiritual and physical healing.

Saturday, Nov. 28. We celebrate our family Thanksgiving a bit late. Barbara spends several hours to-ing and fro-ing in the kitchen. It’s extra special, what with Barbara’s recovery and the epiphany of our two grandsons.

Thursday, Dec. 3. Today, Barbara’s out and about, walking without a cane, and standing up almost straight! Thank God. I told her, “Take your cane to Young at Heart [our church senior group]; you’ll get more sympathy!” She did, but left it hanging on the coat rack.

*                *                      *

Forty-five years ago we promised to love each other “in sickness and in health.” Now’s the test. But with Barbara struggling to be independent, it isn’t hard. She’s thrilled with her new knees, and happy that she got them both done at the same time. We’re grateful for her healing, and we look forward to our future.

Now, if I could just get back into the master bedroom…

Mary’s three-story, 100-year-old house is obscured by a tall oak with its leafless, witch-finger branches that slash across the full moon and pierce the night sky. The wind is rising and rain threatens. On this cold autumn night, smoke pours from the chimney, but no light escapes the shuttered windows. The passing years have flaked off big patches of paint from the porch rails.

We and our three preschool children live next door, but we don’t know Mary well. I do know she loves reading dark stories, and I’ve come here tonight to loan her my Edgar Alan Poe. Her husband died years ago, and now she and her teenage daughter, Susan, live here alone. Last year, Mary’s other daughter, Linda, died in a brutal auto accident. We were out of state at the time, and when we returned home and searched the old papers, we found the report of the accident, but nothing about Linda’s funeral.

I knock on Mary’s door and wait, feeling guilty that I haven’t visited earlier. She opens the door, peers out at me, and says, “Come in. We haven’t seen you for a while. Oh! I love Poe, especially his horror stories.” Susan peeps over her shoulder—silent, brooding, uncertain.

“I thought you’d like it,” I say. “I guess my favorite story is “The Telltale Heart.”

Mary leads me down a dim hallway to the parlor and says, “I’ll sit here; you take that easy chair over there.” A weak light leaks into the parlor from a dusty chandelier in the adjacent room.

Susan rises to make tea. The window shades are drawn, and dust lies on all the furniture. My chair creaks when I move. A rug smelling of cat urine covers the uneven wooden floor. Books lie helter-skelter around the parlor. When Susan returns with a few stale crackers and tea, we sip silently but don’t converse much. Mary says, “Thank you for coming.” Her voice betrays a sad wistfulness, or a resignation.

After tea, Mary and Susan both disappear into one of the bedrooms. I wonder where they’ve gone. After ten minutes they emerge, half-leading and half-carrying a young woman who I judge to be in her early twenties. I feel a chill and my hands turn clammy—she looks like Linda!

They seat the woman in a recliner opposite me, carefully arranging her full skirt about her knees. I imagine I see her chest rise and fall ever so slightly. Her clothes give her a girlish look—a green sweater and opaque white stockings. Her feet stretch out in front of her with her black flats hanging off her toes. Thin hands lie limp in her lap, revealing red, nail-polished fingers. Her pale face head leans back against the top of her chair with glazed eyelids falling open, seemingly staring at the lights of the chandelier. Then I see the dark purple scar that runs from beside her nose around to the back of her head, naturally parting her disheveled brown hair.

Mary says to me, “She loves the recliner. She needs a little help getting to and from the bedroom, don’t you Linda?” I imagine I see Linda’s glazed eyes flicker. Susan says nothing. In fact, she hardly talks throughout my whole visit.

In contrast, I have the impression that Linda is interjecting murmured comments now and again, although I can’t distinguish any words. She seems to be making gentle demands—not mean, but insistent. What does she want?

I wonder, Why do they care for her here? Does Linda have her sister and mother under her powers? What powers? Is she somehow hindering them from releasing her? She hardly speaks, but the two women seem dedicated to her, and even fearful. Mary leans anxiously toward her.

I feel weak, and cannot comprehend Mary’s burden—the daily care for Linda, and the pain of having to watch her wide-eyed Susan, perpetually fearful, moody, and mournful. I’m suddenly seized by compassion, and suggest, “Why don’t Barbara and I take Linda in for a few days to give you a break? We’re right next door.”

Mary glances at Linda and says, “Oh, I don’t know how she would like that. We see her and talk to her every day.”

“Oh, that’s OK. We have an empty bedroom. And you can come over each day to visit.”

Finally, Mary reluctantly agrees. “Linda really doesn’t require much care—she sleeps in her clothes. She likes sitting in the living room during the day and retiring early, and she doesn’t mind company. But, how will we get her over to your house? She can hardly walk.”

“No problem—I’ll carry her.”

I walk over to the chair and hoist Linda in my arms, feeling her cold body. She’s lost a lot of weight since I saw her a year ago. When her wounded head falls back, I stare into her wan face with its pale, pink-lipped mouth partly open, as if she’s trying to breathe through her nose.

I say goodbye and leave the house. Mary and Susan watch us from the porch as I carry her down the uneven steps. I’m thinking, I haven’t even told Barbara about this! I wonder if she’ll mind? And what evil, what violence, am I bringing into our home with our small children? As I walk, I try to watch for cracks in the uneven sidewalk. A cold rain has started to fall that obscures the moon and dampens Linda’s face. Little rivulets fall off her sodden hair, drip off her nose and the corners of her gaping mouth, and run down my arm. When I reach out house and climb up the steep cement steps onto our wooden porch, I see the lighted jack-o-lantern the kids carved this week.

I give a violent start, as if waking from a dream. I sit up in my bed sodden with sweat I look around, bewildered. Linda has somehow disappeared!

And then with a shock I realize—tonight is All Hallows Eve!

Source: WINGSPREAD E-Zine for September, 2015

Daily joys make life complete
But unlived joys oft’ seem more sweet.

‘Tis not the pilots lust the sky
But groundlings who may never fly.

The healthy take each day for granted;
The dying count each day as blessèd.

Gluttons scorn their daily bread;
The starving judge one dry crust good.

Wives live bored in nuptial bliss,
Single souls seek just one kiss.

The wealthy may ignore their gold;
The poor give thanks one coin to hold.

‘Tis not the young long for the dawn,
But crones whose lives are almost gone.

Our fulfilled dreams we soon ignore,
But unfulfilled, we quest them more.

God—help us seize each passing hour
And worship Thee with all our power.

Teach us to treasure all our days,
And fill our hearts with constant praise.

James P Hurd

I’m a bad navigator—missing exits, choosing the wrong route, getting turned around. For years I’ve had a recurring dream where I’m driving around lost in a foreign city. I’m apprehensive, late for my appointment, and clothed only in my underwear. Too proud to stop and ask directions, or even consult a map.

So Barbara got me a GPS for our anniversary. It comes with a tiny “How to Get Started” pamphlet (in four languages), with helpful information such as: “Don’t blame us if you’re distracted and kill yourself in a crash… If the battery explodes and your car catches fire, we don’t want to know about it… It’s not our fault if you get lost…,”etc.

The pamphlet barely mentions how to operate the device, so I plug it into my car’s cigarette lighter, turn it on, and finally figure out how to punch in “350 Nelson Ave., Stillwater, MN.”

While I’m still in the garage, the GPS voice (I call her “Betty”) starts telling me where to go and what to do—“Drive to highlighted route.” I visualize Betty sitting sullenly somewhere in a darkened room, staring at a computer screen. Omniscient, she knows all the roads in North America, and even knows about construction work, detours, and rush-hour traffic. I wonder if she can see and hear me, or if she even cares. She intimidates.

I’ve always considered my wife a sufficient navigation aid (e.g., when she scolds, “you missed your turn!”). Now I have Betty. Barbara wonders if I’ll ever need to use my brain again.

I think Betty’s kind of a control freak. After we turn onto I-35W, she instructs me to “Go five miles to Highway 36; then turn left.” I wonder what route she’s taking me; I want to go a different way. I’m hesitant to contradict her, but I cautiously turn left onto 85^th Avenue, thinking maybe she won’t notice.

I’m expecting her to say, “Well do what you like, but you’ll be sorry…” or, “I’ll deal with your wrong turns but I’m not happy about it…” She says none of these things, and merely keeps suggesting that I turn south to Highway 36. I ignore her.

Finally she gives up and says, “Go ten miles, then turn right.” Clearly, she’s given up on Highway 36, but I can tell she’s not happy. Betty says nothing for the next ten miles. I wonder, what is she thinking? Next time she speaks, her voice sounds different—curt, edgy, a bit passive-aggressive. I think she’s offended. I’d like to tell her that I’m not mad at her, ask her about her husband and kids, or ask how her day’s going.

When we reach Stillwater, Betty flawlessly guides us to the Thai Basil restaurant (“You have now arrived at your destination”), and after dinner we drive on our own to Nelson’s Ice Cream Shop. She doesn’t seem to mind.

Driving home from Stillwater I don’t detect any resentment—Betty acts as if all is forgiven. But when we turn in at our driveway Betty says we still have four-tenths of a mile to go. Is this retaliation? No. I remember that when I typed in our street name, I’d left out “West.” Betty was thinking we wanted to go “East.” Not your fault, girl.

I wonder how much more I would have to pay to get a friendly male GPS voice—“Is everything OK?… You’re going great… Beautiful day… You might want to turn left here, but I can work with you if you don’t …” My kind of laid-back guy.

Then, after I gained more confidence, I could buy a trash-talking guy: “Why do ya wanna go there? Work with me here—are ya gonna do what I tell ya?… You idiot! I told you to turn right!… Dude, I can tell you’re confused… OK, I’m shuttin’ down—just drive where you want, but it ain’t gonna be pretty… I don’t care if you get yourself lost!… Come back when you’re ready to listen…” At least I would know where I stood.

I’m still not completely comfortable with Betty but I think we’re achieved a good working relationship. She’ll tolerate a few wrong turns if I follow most of her suggestions and, most importantly, she’ll tolerate me if only I don’t talk back.