Rear Window Reflections: A Knee Surgery Journey
As I lay here, confined to my bed after knee surgery, I can’t help but feel like a modern-day Jeffries from Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rear Window.” My days are spent observing my surroundings, pondering the intricacies of my recent surgery, and weaving together stories from the fragments of information I’ve collected.
This poem is an exploration of my personal journey, beginning with the anesthetic-induced fog of the surgery room and continuing through the recovery process. As I recount my experiences and reflections, I invite you to join me in questioning the nature of knowledge and the limits of our understanding.
Through this introspective journey, I delve into the human tendency to construct narratives from incomplete information, using my own healing process as a backdrop. Ultimately, I hope to shed light on the interconnectedness of personal experience and the universal struggle to make sense of the world around us.
As I was rolled into
the operating theater,
I glanced around the room.
I counted ten or twelve of them,
wearing face masks,
green robes,
and white headgear.
Each one was busy
preparing their tools;
the only person
who stood out to me
was the surgeon,
sitting on a chair,
awaiting my arrival.
As soon as I was in position,
the surgeon said
to his team,
“Are we all ready to start?”
And everyone responded
in a melodious chorus,
“Oh, yeah!”
The anesthetist
turned to me,
ready to give an injection
in my spine.
As I started anticipating
a prick in my spine,
I heard his soft voice asking me,
“Uday, what’s your
favorite alcohol?”
As I answered his question,
in a voice loud and clear,
everyone in the room
seemed particularly interested
in knowing more about
The Monkey Shoulder,
a German gin.
As I tried to respond
to the questions
from one corner of the room
to the other,
the room went silent.
And in a blink,
I heard the soft whisper of
the anesthetist,
“We are done.”
I said to him,
“What? No way!
I just heard you all
ask me questions
about Monkey Shoulder!”
The anesthetist smiled
and said, “You did well.”
There was no way for me to know
that the surgery was done.
I was sedated;
there was no pain.
The only way for me to know
that the surgery was done
was when nurses and doctors
visited me,
one after the other,
to make sure I was okay.
The surgeon stopped by.
When I asked him
what was involved
in replacing a knee,
he said, amidst many other things,
sawing, hammering, and drilling.
I was intrigued;
I found a YouTube video
to revisit
what my surgery
may have been like.
Now I know
what happened
between the conversation
about Monkey Shoulder
and the anesthetist’s visit
to my bedside:
The surgeon
first made a mark on my knee
with a Sharpie.
He made a superficial cut
into my knee
and opened the wound wide.
He put the kneecap aside,
took a scalpel in hand,
and started removing
the debris of the meniscus.
He used the tibial cutting jig
to make a flat cut
on the shin bone,
perpendicular to
the long axis of
the shin bone.
Then, he put a rod
down the center of
the side bone,
and removed
some of the bone spur
and torn cartilage
with a chisel and a hammer.
The next thing was to
remove the end
of the side bone
at a perfect angle.
They prepared the kneecap
by removing
some of the inside tissue.
Next, they placed
trial components
for patella and tibia
to ensure
the movement of the leg
was perfect.
They adjusted
the ligaments
to ensure that
they were
balanced appropriately.
Once satisfied,
they removed
the trial components
and prepared to place
the real ones.
First, they applied
blue cement
that looked like putty
with a glue gun.
They started with
the shin bone,
placed the prosthesis,
and hammered it in place.
Once in place,
they cleaned out the
excess cement
and allowed it to harden
through an exothermic reaction.
They checked the leg movement
to make sure everything
was working fine.
Finally, they stitched me up.
As I finished watching
the YouTube video,
I remembered
asking the anesthetist
if there was a possibility
for me to watch
the surgery in real time.
Could he give me
such an anesthetic?
I’m glad there wasn’t
such an option.
I would have been
a disruption,
asking too many questions.
On YouTube, I could
pause and rewind.
While watching the surgery,
I could neither pause
nor rewind,
but on YouTube,
I could simulate a mental image
of my own surgery
in progress.
I moved to
my daughter’s and
son-in-law’s house
for recuperation.
“Baba got a new knee,”
we told our granddaughter,
who was wondering
why I was in bed
with a bandage on my knee.
Auggie, the Labradoodle,
was concerned and amused.
He tried to sniff my bandage
but was quickly turned away.
Lying in bed
with my feet raised
above heart level,
and the knee wrapped
in the ice machine pad,
all the voices of hope
came back to me.
“Your life will change
once you’re back
on your feet,”
said all my friends.
While we were still
in the hospital,
we received the news
that my wife’s mother
was in the ICU in Mumbai.
It was a catch-22 situation:
decide
if my wife should leave
for India
or attend to me.
We booked a flight for her
a week after my return
from the hospital.
Alas,
two days after my return,
we heard the news
of her passing away.
The pain of losing her
could not be suppressed
by the painkillers
I was taking
for post-surgery healing.
As I lay in bed
with my leg raised,
I remembered the movie
“Rear Window” by Alfred Hitchcock.
In this movie,
Jeffries, a photographer
with a broken leg,
obsesses over observing
his neighbors,
keeps building scenarios,
and makes assumptions
about a murder he witnesses
in the neighbor’s house.
The film demonstrates
how the human mind creates
imaginary stories
based on limited information.
As I thought about Jeffries,
I realized that
in my state of confinement,
I, too, am making stories
in my head
with limited information
I am receiving.
I wondered,
aren’t we all
often making stories
with limited information?
The point made
in “Rear Window” is
that it’s important
to question the veracity
or completeness
of available information
while making stories
and to keep revising
the stories we make
as we collect
more information.
I wondered,
how did surgery begin?
Was it with complete knowledge
of human anatomy?
Did the first person
who used the scalpel
to cut open a human body
have all the knowledge
of the procedure?
or did they work with
incomplete stories?
The surgeon
who worked on my knee,
knowing everything
there is to know
in medical science
about knee surgery,
may not know
what he will know
in the future about
human anatomy and surgery.
As I heal,
I’ve come to see
That recovery’s not just physical,
But of mind and soul, too,
As knowledge’s limits expand.
