Recovery by Jamie Kirkpatrick

Up until a week ago, I still had all my original parts. But that was then; now, thanks to one of the minor miracles of modern medicine, I have a new (left) knee. The surgery itself went well, and heartfelt thanks go out to my surgeon and all the selfless people in the OR and the Recovery Room who took such good care of me. I didn’t know it at the time, but surgery was the easy part. The real journey was yet to come…

Friends who had been there before told me. “Stay ahead of the pain.” “Take all your meds, even the scary ones,” they said. “Be sure to do all your physical therapy,” they advised. They were right, of course, but there was something else they didn’t tell me: “Don’t get discouraged. Recovery takes time so be patient and be a good patient. You’ll need a lot of help.” Now, a week into recovery, I know that to be true.

Trauma, even when it’s planned in advance and carried out by caring professionals, is, well, traumatic. Maybe you think you can see the pain coming, maybe you even intellectually understand it, but you don’t really feel it ’til it hits you in the solar plexus, or, as in my case, in the left knee. And, sadly, you have to feel it to truly understand it. It has to hurt to heal.

The first day after my surgery was a seductive honeymoon. The cutting was done, the worst was over. Wrong! On that second day, the pain blockers were still conscientiously doing their job so it felt like my recovery would be a piece of cake. Not only would I be able to stay ahead of the pain, there wasn’t that much of it. I ditched the walker, put away the heavy duty pain meds. Little did I know…

Since that day, life has slowed to a crawl, or, to be more precise, to a limp with a cane. Existence lies somewhere between a chair, the couch, and bed. Time is measured in twenty minute increments of ice therapy. Every six hours, there are two Extra Strength Tylenol; at other intervals, there’s an antibiotic, an anti-inflammation pill, low-dose aspirin for my heart, and a little pink pill to help keep me regular. (Sorry! Too much information?) There’s not much I can do for myself: the heavy lifting—literally, figuratively— falls squarely on my wife. Were it not for her, someone would undoubtedly find me covered in cobwebs when the snow melts. If there is a special line reserved for caregivers to enter heaven, she’s at the front of it.

Some day soon, I know I will turn the proverbial corner and begin to feel better. I wish I felt so certain about that other pain we’re all feeling: the endless turmoil and duplicity, the ugly viciousness on the streets of Minneapolis, the storm clouds over Greenland that threaten to unravel NATO from within. No unearned, gifted Nobel Prize can ever ease the pain of all the trauma we are suffering from a botched surgery performed by a glowering, demented quack and his twisted team of enablers. Should we somehow survive this mess, our recovery will be long and painful. But this I know: it will be worth it.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” is scheduled for publication in February, 2026. (It’s available for pre-order now on Amazon.) His website is musingjamie.net.