Dave Kneeds to Relax following a great Surgery!

Amazingly, the surgery went wonderfully well and I'm already at home in full, stable, normal human condition (note the stress on "human"...not "dragon"). The whole ordeal took about 6 hours, and in the following paragraphs, I shall describe in brutal detail the events that transpired.

I arrived at the hospital at 8 a.m., but I could have arrived at 8 a.m. Pacific Time and I still would have had plenty of time to spare. Nonetheless, the hours leading up to surgery, although filled with large amounts of what Albert Einstein like to call "waiting," were very eventful. After first checking in at the admitting desk, I was sent to the Pre-Op ward where I was given a fancy bracelet with all my information on it (and by 'fancy,' I mean a plain ol' paper bracelet), and a curtained-off room to change into my Operational Uniform (which sounds much cooler than 'hospital gown'). At this task, I miserable failed. They gave me 2 gowns and told me to put on one "like a smock" and the other "like a robe." Me, being the brilliant sophomore in college that I am, put on the first gown "like a smock," but put on the second one like "a kid who has no idea what he's doing." When the nurse came in to take my height and weight, she politely apologized after falling to the ground in laughter and helped me readjust my garments before I strutted across the entire pre-op looking like a human Hospital Gown parachute. (That scene may have been exaggerated)

After that, I was led back to my cubicle (as I liked to call it) to get my vitals taken. As we passed the restroom, the nurse asked, "Do you have to go?" I replied I did not, which was true, but as is consistent with Newton's 4th Law of Nature, as soon as I said that, I had to go. However, I didn't want to look like a total dopus, so I bit my lip and hoped she would ask me again 30 minutes later. Once back in the Cubicle, a nurse came up to me and asked me to state my name and birthday. I told her the information, but little does she know that I sneakily read it off my bracelet.

With my last trip to surgery being my tonsillectomy in 1996, I was very impressed with the advancements in blood pressure and pulse-ox technology. I felt like they were creating my Avatar. Anyway, once that process was completed successfully, a nurse came in to insert my IV. This was the only part of the surgery process that I was feeling any apprehension about, but the guy was very skilled and inserted the IV no problem.

Once the IV was in, my mother was permitted to join me in the Cubicle. We stayed there for quiet some time, but were frequently visited by nurses asking for more personal information, anaesthesiologists wondering if I had a family history of overcoming adversity in the face of overwhelming obstacles (or something like that), and Cubs fans wondering if 2010 would be the year**. After a while, the surgeon came in and asked me some last minute questions. "So, how are those tonsils feeling?" he said. "Fine," I said, "just don't get mixed up and accidentally perform a knee arthroscopy." We both shared a hearty laugh, after which I was wheeled back to the operating room. (That scene may or may not have been fictional).

As I was being wheeled back to the O.R., I surveyed my surrounding like a....a surveyor. There were big doors leading in and out of over 20 operating rooms. The room was laid out lie a big labyrinth of circular passages. They're on to me, I thought. Escape is impossible. When we finally got to my surgeon's room, I was wheeled in and asked to lay down on the center table. They can operate on me, but they can't make me talk. My plan was to record all the tiniest details of the operation to be able to accurately relate the tale after the fact, but they were wise to me and slipped me a drug that knocked me out cold. Next I knew, I was in the Recovery Room.

I awoke to the sound of the Transiberian Orchestra playing "Carol of the Bells." With heavy, droopy eyes, I scanned the area and concluded, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was definitely not in Kansas. Nebraska, maybe. But not Kansas. I then realized I was in Recovery Room A and informed the nurse next to me that I was, in fact, alive. When I was lucid enough to answer basic questions (such as "Why does ever Bob Dylan sound the same?"), I was wheeled into Recovery Room B where my mother and father were allowed to rejoin me. After chowing down on 3 packs of crackers and guzzling two cups of apple juice, the nurse decided I was good enough to come home. Thus, after an eventful wheelchair ride through the hospital that drew comparisons to the Speeder Bike chase on Endor, my Mom picked me up at the hospital and drove me to my home away from home: Panera Bread.

Now, I'm back at home relaxing in our La-z-boy recliner enjoying a lifestyle similar to the Pharaohs. My every need is waited upon, and I'm so thankful for the prayers and support of my family and friends during this whole ordeal.

Oh, the results? I almost completely forgot. The surgery was a great success! I didn't have to have the micro-fracture procedure, and I'll hopefully be off crutches by the weekend. I don't know yet what this means for my future running career, but I'm hoping for the best. I'll keep you all posted as further events occur.

* for all you avid Star Wars fans

** it's not