The Road Not Taken
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I could have been a surgeon. That is
one possibility. Political geography, architecture, and anthropology; intense
fields of interest. I sigh at lost possibilities. Now and then I think about them, the latter
three.
Raised when and where I was, none of
the above vocations were realistically within my reach. Nurse, secretary,
school teacher; my limited options. I didn’t have a passion for any of them but
knew the first two were out of the question so settled on the teaching course,
at which I was a success, then a failure and once again, a success. Life, eh.
Then I went on to other vocations as my life twisted and turned on the roller
coaster.
Back in the Jurassic Times, in high
school, we were subjected to a series of tests. One that sticks in my memory showed
that among other abilities, I tested high in mechanical aptitude. Made no sense
to me. I could give a fig about cars and how they worked. It took years to
realize cars, for me, had nothing to do with mechanical ability. Your story may
be different.
It’s true. Often I have an uncanny
sense of how things work, how to take apart and put together. At times I’ve
been able to make certain items, a wringer washing machine comes to mind, work
even better than before it broke down, even with the extra parts left over. I
never did figure out the extra parts. However, items frequently have
unnecessary extra parts. I’ve assembled hundreds of Christmas toys. Trust me.
So why surgery? Where there is a
need . . . My daughter Dee Dee is plagued with an extremely painful knee. Oh,
lord help us, do I ever have experience. My right knee was shattered in a car
accident years ago. I had three surgeries in as many years and lived with
increasing pain for the next forty-some years. At which time I had knee
replacement surgery.
I know how to do this. I have empathy. I don’t want my girl
to go through decades of pain.
Knees seem fairly simple. A vertical slice with a sharp
knife, roll aside the flesh, saw the top and bottom bones off, throw out the
middle section. Replace with a ball joint (I’m sure I can find one in an auto
or farm machinery parts store) with a post welded onto each end. Drive the
posts into the leg bones, wrap the flesh back around, and fasten the two sides
together with hog rings and wait for it to heal. Smear daily with Bag Balm and
it will hardly leave a visible scar. Voila, a new knee and no more pain. A
simple mechanical solution.
So I told Dee Dee that all we need is a Skil saw, a hot glue
gun for cauterization, hog rings and pliers. Her husband Chris joined the
conversation and said he had a chain saw. Crude, but it will work. Her father
has fencing pliers and hog rings. I have the glue gun.
Dee said she refuses to let Chris and me near each other. Why
not? We love her. We want to help.
Of course, we have a few loose ends to tie up. Anesthesia,
for example. But, hey, we are talking about the good old Montana frontier
do-it-yourself work ethic here. So the good old frontier anesthetic should be
good enough. And my daughter is not a drinker, so a small amount of
“medication” ought to do the trick. Chris said he’d hold her down.
There is one little bitty drawback to this plan. Blood. Blood
renders me unnecessarily and helplessly queasy, particularly my own children’s
blood. In fact, back when I was considering the big three decision, nurse,
secretary or teacher, blood knocked out the first option without question.
Chris suggested a swig of frontier medication might work wonders
on my squeamish stomach before letting Dee Dee finish the bottle. And, of
course, historically there is well documented evidence that frontier physicians
relied heavily on this self-medication to remedy all manner of social ills. I’m
not crazy about that option. But I figure this is just one of the small
problems, easily solved.
Let me think on it. After all, surgery is a simple matter of
mechanical dexterity. I hope there are not too many extra parts.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
June 18,
2015
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