Yet Another Pandemic Trickster Tale: When Urgent Elective Surgery Isn’t
I knew when we set up camp at Emerald Bay State Park on the shores of Lake Tahoe almost three years ago that her hip was getting worse. She couldn’t use the steep stairs up to the hillside campsite and had to find a long way around. I knew the situation was going downhill fast when a bear busted the bear box under the bright June moon, and she didn’t budge from bed. If anyone was going outside to confront the critter, it was going to be me. Trish had been our family protector, driver’s ed stickler, safety-first officer, and handygal all wrapped into one. When she didn’t rise for the bear, I knew we were in trouble.
After a stare-down, the furry beast scuttled up the hill with a Trader Joe’s bag, tossed out our vitamin organizers and went for the unopened jar of almond butter. I’d heard the sound of a knife going through plastic before and that’s exactly what I heard about twenty paces away. I imagined those ursidae teeth as I grinned at the cascade of slurping happy camper sounds coming from the same hungry mouth. Once the bear abandoned the bonanza, I crept back into the tent. I wondered if I had passed the latest test for my Quick Response When the Chips are Down badge.
Three years since the Tahoe camping trip, I’m fulfilling the eyewitness reporter role, pinned on me by whatever powers be. Here we are, on the cusp of the surgery that Trish has been waiting for since her Medicare kicked in. She’s one of those unlucky ones who works part time — without health benefits. Because of her preexisting conditions, private insurance had been costing her hundreds of dollars a month. In addition, she had a several-thousand-dollar deductible and a standing percentage built into the contract. A hip replacement would cost her thousands. She wasn’t ready to scoop that much from her savings, not when 65 seemed so near. So, she waited.
Much had happened since the campsite revelation, including my self-absorption with the book I’d been writing. The bad hip had become something of an ornery houseguest who never went away and whom I tried to ignore. Sometimes Trish would get to the moanie-groanie stage when a low pressure system approached, but that kind of weather also triggered my migraines, so my notice of her discomforts was blinded by my eye pillow. When her birthday month hit, I sensed Trish’s giddiness. “Happy Medicare to Me!” she hummed. The hip procedure gleamed on the horizon like a field of candles.
Appointments pursued, lab work completed, timelines researched, Trish was sure she wouldn’t leave 2020 with the same right hip she came in with. COVID-19 had other ideas. Her initial surgery date of December 15 was postponed, almost to the day, until March. Those three months demanded much of us, not the least of which was Trish’s growing discomfort. Her constant, achy pain accelerated from a 7 to a 10 and kept getting worse. At times, her pain went off the charts, like when she stood from a sitting position or sat from standing, or raised from the bed or dropped into it or stepped on her right foot so she could go up a step or down a step or lift her leg into the car or out of it, which you can guess is an awful, and I mean awful, lot of off-the-charts pain. Go ahead. Say “OW!” Louder. Much, much louder. After long days of witnessing the barrage, I found myself burrowed under the blankets in a fetal curl with a prayer on my lips — may Trish be healthy, may she be happy, may she be safe. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
While her hip roiled in angry waves, I kept the externals managed: dog walks, laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, and all the other chores that had been weekly and straggled to monthly or whenever I could manage to fit them in. I was tired. She was tired. The dogs were tired. The routine was ready for a shake-up and fast.
So here I am, the night before Trish’s surgery, wondering what the doctor’s text will tell me after the procedure is finished. Will my sweetie get another chance to confront a bear? Will she sprint the stairs to the campsite and maybe sling a bag or two over her shoulders again? Nothing would make me happier, and I’d bet a repeat trip to Tahoe that my brave, badass girlfriend would wildly agree.
