Recently Bob had surgery on his left knee at Cape Cod Hospital. I’ve never seen such anxiety. We had a long talk. “Relax. Relax. Breathe in through your nose and slowly, to the count of four, breathe out through your mouth.” After doing this exercise for a full five minutes, I was finally calm enough to drive him there.

Bob, whose bizarre sense of humor is only matched by his surgeon’s, had a plan. When Dr. Kinkead came in, Bob was already in his hospital gown. The doctor said, “It’s your left knee, correct?” Bob, having anticipated this question said, “I know it’s the end of the day and you’re probably tired so I wanted to make sure you knew which knee to cut.” He lifted his gown to expose both knees. On his right knee Bob had pasted a cut-out of a surgeon’s outfit, complete with a stethoscope and scalpel. With a black magic marker, he had drawn a circle with a line through it around the surgical pasties, indicating a no-surgery zone.

Dr. Kinkead went into hysterics. Then he made his own mark on the correct knee and pulled the gown back down. Bob jokingly said to me, “I bet he drew a goofy smiley face.” So I lifted the gown, and sure enough he did. A few months later, he had surgery on his other knee. Promising Dr. Kinkead there'd be no surprises, Bob did the mature thing. He went to a costume store and bought an identical match to a leg.

There’s a tender bittersweet camaraderie in hospital waiting rooms. The looks we give to strangers contain a rainbow of emotions. We smile with fear. We wish the best for each other’s loved ones, knowing the worst could happen. We wait, looking at our watches although we just checked the time one minute ago.

There’s a phone in the waiting room so patients’ families can receive a call from the surgeon when the operation is over. I saw an older woman with her daughter. When the receptionist said the doctor wanted the woman to pick up the phone, she did, obviously with trepidation. Then she came back to her daughter and whispered something. They stood up, gave each other an ecstatic high five, then hugged for the longest moment in time.

When Dr. Kinkead himself came to talk with me after Bob’s surgery, I was petrified because all the other doctors just called. He spoke for several minutes, but I didn’t hear a word. All I heard was, “Everything’s fine.”

I went to the recovery room to sit with Bob until the general anesthesia wore off. He was also given Demerol, a narcotic painkiller. I kissed him.

“Hi sweetheart,” he said to the nurse.

The nurse said he should eat and asked if he’d like crackers, a muffin or a turkey sandwich. He looked at her for a ridiculously long time, as if she had asked him to add fifty-three to the square root of 17 trillion.

“A muffin, please,” I said.

I’m thrilled to report that just two days after surgery, Bob felt great. 

I thank God. I thank Dr. Kinkead. I thank so many loving people, some of whom we barely know. People who wanted to help us with chores because I’m disabled myself and can barely walk.

And I thank our cat Eddie, who for the first time in his nine years of life, fell asleep that night in Bob’s arms.

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