I Want the Same Care as My Cat

Last week I went to have my knee scoped. My joint was done in by an old cartilage tear from being on a ski slope I had no business being on and a much newer tear caused by riding a stationary bicycle. Not even a real bicycle for heaven’s sake. I must indeed be getting old.

Sky Ridge Surgical Center, where the surgery was done, was very good with attentive staff and a crisp proficiency—they see idiots like me on a regular basis and know how to deal kindly with us. My surgeon was communicative and said it was routine and went very well. I had more than adequate pain medicine. I was in bed for two days, had about three days of real misery when I used two crutches, three days of moderate with a single crutch, and the last two not bad on a cane. All as predicted, more or less.

So why, might you ask, am I so discontent? Simple answer: Because I am envious of the surgical patients down at Dr. Weldon’s Coal Creek Veterinary Hospital here in Aurora, Colorado, where I take my cat, Squeak.

Squeak has had her share of surgical misadventures, like the time she ate a small rabbit, furs, whiskers, and all. The only evidence left behind were two paws. She had to be cleaned out, which would have been enough except that she then ate a mouse on top of it and required surgery. It must have been some tropical madness that suddenly gave a well-fed middle-class cat the overwhelming desire for fresh meat, but whatever the reason she came home with a line of neat stitches and a collar to prevent her from removing them.

I found myself remembering her as I sat brooding about my own discomfort. In contrast with me, she seemed to have made a remarkable recovery and was down moping only a couple of days before sitting in the window making irritated faces at the nesting birds outside.

When I took her in today for her senior annual exam (she’s nearly 18) and her rabies shot, I asked Dr. Weldon what they do to help their patients after orthopedic surgery. “Oh,” she told me,” we massage the area, do acupuncture and chiropracty, and treat them with heat.”

I drooled with envy. Right now I could kill to have a massage on my aching calf and thigh muscles and on my back, which is cramping from the tilted way I am walking. My massage therapist is willing to do it but only with permission from the surgeon since I still have the stitches in place. The surgeon is busy doing surgery as he should be. His staff is too busy with other idiots like me to get back to me. So I am stuck.

In the old days, it was common to give massages in hospitals. It’s a lovely lost practice that was especially common in Europe which gives more credence to the idea of a therapeutic massage. I can’t think of a time when it would be more soothing or kind than just after surgery when every muscle in one’s body is traumatized. I am in love with the idea of a long, sweeping movement followed by a deep knuckle into the middle of my cramped, tight calf muscle. Ah luxury. I would be willing to pay whatever it takes for the comfort. But it’s just out of reach and I guess it will just have to wait.

Part of me admires the contextual brilliance and technical artistry of American medicine. We have dandy machines like MRIs and incredibly evolving techniques. I know my surgery was done perfectly and the result eventually will be wonderful. But the other part of me wants the comfort of something like a local shaman to provide hands-on psychological comfort and attention.

I wonder if Dr Weldon would be willing to include me among the cats, dogs, birds, and rabbits.