We can now edit a baby’s genes before birth to counter life-threatening conditions like Huntington’s disease and cystic fibrosis, so can someone please tell me why we still have to suffer the indignity of the Johnny shirt more than 100 years after it was first used?
I had surgery last week to repair two tears in the meniscus in my left knee, an operation I waited four and a half years for (that’s a column for another day!). I was already feeling a tad apprehensive when I entered the Hants Community Hospital in Windsor, a hospital I specifically chose to try and ensure the wait didn’t become five and a half years.
My last surgery was a tonsillectomy performed at the old St. Mary’s Hospital in Inverness when I was just seven. That’s 54 years since my last operation. In between, I haven’t even had my wisdom teeth out. They’re still lurking somewhere under my gums, apparently in no hurry to meet the baby tooth that still stubbornly sits firmly rooted just behind my left upper canine.
Most days, the knee doesn’t even bother me. That’s why it felt weird to casually stroll into a hospital, only to be wheeled out a few hours later with two holes in my knee. But it’s something that had to be fixed. You see, I’ve been running for more than 40 years and that’s something I haven’t been able to do since I first experienced pain in the front of my knee in the spring of 2022.
So, there I was, being escorted into a changing room by a friendly RN, supplied with a hospital gown and Johnny shirt to replace my shirt and shorts, which were to be placed in a tray just outside the room. After providing me with instructions on how to properly wear the two garments, she started for the door, only to quickly turn on her heels to level one more indignity on my already vulnerable state.
“Wait a minute,” she said, as she stooped to take a gander at my left knee. “How hairy are you?”
When her cursory inspection of my left leg revealed that shaving would not be necessary, as I possess the legs of a pre-pubescent boy, she quickly added, “Oh, you’re good,” and exited the room, leaving me standing there trying to recall her instructions as I began to unbutton my shirt.
There are few times in one’s life when they feel more anxious and vulnerable than when they’ve been asked to change into a Johnny shirt. As I tried to recall what she said before she left, I realized there were instructions on the wall, complete with pictures, but since I had left my reading glasses in the car, they weren’t of much help.
I did recall her saying not to bother tying anything, so I put the Johnny shirt on my front and the hospital gown on my back and sheepishly emerged from the changing room.
“Did I get the ensemble right?” I nervously joked, as I deposited my clothes in the tray.
“You did good,” she replied, as I breathed a sigh of relief.
You see, I’ve seen what can happen when the instructions prove too complicated for some folks. A year earlier, I was in a Halifax clinic, getting an MRI on this same knee, and was sitting in a waiting area in my Johnny shirt/hospital gown combo, when another man emerged from the change room with both garments applied to his front. He was still fumbling to locate the straps in the back when a woman, who I believed to be his wife, swiftly grabbed him by the arm, deftly spun him back towards the changing room, whilst whispering the instructions which he had somehow confused the first time.
The poor woman was sure not to make eye contact with anyone as she turned and left the waiting area entirely, making sure she wasn’t anywhere near in case the second attempt proved just as unsuccessful.
The poor guy did eventually emerge from the changing room a second time, apparently with everything worked out, and as he sat across from me, it was now my turn to avoid eye contact. There are just some things you can’t unsee!
I’m happy to report that the surgery went well. Little more than two hours after being led into the operating room, I was sitting in a wheelchair outside the main entrance, chatting with the same RN, as I waited for my wife to bring the car around. Having not eaten anything since the night before, I joked that I was going to hit the first drive-thru on the way home.
“I think you should probably stick to soup and juice, at least for today,” she counselled, clearly unsure whether I was serious.
As it turned out, our friend Tia showed up at our house shortly after we got home with a late lunch of pizza and Caesar salad. And, at my suggestion, the three of us hit our local pub a few hours later for supper, where I enjoyed a BLT and fries. Having mastered the crutches, we capped off our excursion with an ice cream at a local park.
I’m probably not going to be running anytime soon, but the first week has been pretty encouraging. A prescription for “good drugs” was filled but they never passed my lips. I did take Tylenol and Advil for a couple of days, in case there was any pain, but even those were abandoned by day three. I was driving by day two, the crutches were gone on day three and every day I feel like I can bend the leg another few degrees.
The only fly in the ointment was my grown daughter’s reluctance to help me get a sock on my left foot, leaving me with the stark realization that that girl is clearly going to have me in a home at the first sign of decline!