A month beyond my second knee replacement surgery, I’ve had time to consider the bizarre parts of this experience. Including the label I was awarded in doctor’s notes. Formulaic, dictated, once considered almost classified, such records are now readily available to patients. And even with medical jargon, useful.
Three separate such reports noted that I’m a “pleasant 77 yr. old.” Shit! Really? Not interesting. Or articulate. Or well-read. Or lively. Or cheerful. Not even worried. Or obstreperous. Or whiny.
Just pleasant. Of course, the surgeon dictating this had spent all of four minutes with me prior to the operating room. Of course, he knew that I would read the document—so he was careful not to offend. Maybe he had a list of acceptable adjectives to employ. On the scale of stuff for him to consider, this tiny label holds no real import.
So why do I flinch? Why do I care?
I do intend to be pleasant most of the time. Although this last surgery prep required me to stand my ground against a grizzled, patronizing, just-plain-wrong anesthesiologist. But whether or not I always feel cheerful, I know that pleasantness works far better most of the time than grumpiness. It’s the lovely olive oil of human interaction. So, the word itself isn’t offensive.
The number also startles me. I know that I’m 77. The medical world uses our birthdates as identification—as proof that they are working on the correct patient. So I must have reiterated by birthdate a dozen times in two days. But when YOU say my age, I’m a little chagrined. Am I really THAT old? I’m inclined to shout out, “yes, but there are extenuating factors!” or “yes, but my neck isn’t as wrinkly as yours.”
My revulsion to be characterized as a “pleasant, 77 yr. old” comes, I think, from the composite, the fusion. From the fear that what I have to show for 77 years of living is run-of-the-mill pleasantness. That all my living—all my careers—all my friendships—all my writing—all my passions boil down to a Campbell’s soup of living—a can of pleasantness. Is that all that I am?
Still, here at 77 (or for that matter, any age), my task isn’t to argue the label so automatically applied by a busy surgeon. But to decide how I want to invest these days. To determine what I can do with two improving knees to savor the world and the amazing experiences I’m offered.
So, what the **#@*, Marcella. Move on to something that matters more than what Dr. Schlepp dictated at the end of a busy day of surgery! ©
