That Time I Got My Knee Butchered by a Surgeon in Taiwan
I didn’t know it would be at the time
It was springtime in Taiwan, so everything was growing, even the rice. The pain in my knee was also growing. Painfully so. I rectified this with a visit to Dr. Wong, a knee specialist. He was not, it turns out, a specialist in my knee.
Eyes more gentle than a morning dew, I knew this man could be trusted. But just like my high school exams, I forgot how little I actually knew.
“I think you may have something called a torn meniscus.” He told me in medical English.
Not understanding him, I asked him to repeat it in Mandarin.
“No.” He said in non-medical English.
This man clearly knew more than me. That clever bastard.
“We need to perform surgery if you ever want to feel better and walk normally again.”
Still trying to grasp at the straws of his complicated language and explanation, I simply shrugged and agreed. Dr. Wong knew more than me.
In late wintertime that year, I went on a long run. I was training hard. I had to complete an ironman soon. Why? I don’t know why.
The ironman was made for iron-willed individuals. It was not made for jello-willed Canadians who smoked for years and enjoyed the occasional 24 beers thrice a week.
But I persevered. I ran. Everyday. Exceedingly long distances. I jogged for up to 20 km per night. ‘Km’ stands for smart-miles in Canada-speak. It’s divisible by 10. I know this because Dr. Wong told me.
I ran. I swam. I biked. Almost every day for 8 months. I even put down my cigarettes for half a year. But don’t worry, I picked them up again afterward. I didn’t know any better.
I spent the night in the hospital. Dr. Wong didn’t trust me to not eat anything before the euthanasia. But what did he know?
He kept calling it Anesthesia. I have no idea what knee surgery had to do with a cute white girl from Russia that I might want to date. Nor how Dr. Wong knew her. Maybe he did know things. I wondered if he could teach me how to date Anesthesia.
I don’t like hospitals. They smell funny. They’re also full of sick people for some reason. I wasn’t sick. I just had a torn man-is-Gus. Or whatever Dr. Wong called it.
Night came. Wong wasn’t here to hold my hand to go to sleep. I wondered if he could tell me the name of the knee problem again. Or if he could lull me to sleep with sweet nothings in my ear about dating Anesthesia. Dr. Wong would know the story, I’m sure.
Eight months of hard training was finally finished. Game day. Game on. Game go. Game hurt. Game continue. Game almost drown but game finished. Game went on bike. Game finished bike. Game got off bike and hurt knee again. Game hobbled for 10 smart-miles to the finish line in last place. Game proud but Game very sore. Game go home and sleep 6 hours later.
Game know he need surgery.
I’m not sure I know who Game is.
The next morning I woke up fresh as a week old stew in the hospital cafeteria — smelly but delicious. I had to wait. Not too long. Just long enough to get really hungry. I knew I was hungry because my stomach told me.
“Eat, JJ, eat,” it growled.
“Stop talking to me tummy, or I won’t feed you that General Wong’s fried chicken later,” I told it.
We had agreed the previous night to rename the dish from General Tsao’s. Dr. Wong knew too much about everything to not have an internationally unacclaimed dish named after him.
Plus, if it would get him to tell me the secrets to Anesthesia’s heart, I’d be more than happy to call him General.
Double plus, my tummy is really knowledgable when it comes to food.
I limped to work on the Monday after the ironman. The race organizers should be sued for false advertising. I did not feel made of iron. Nor like much of a man.
My coworkers were happy for me though. For the first time all year, they felt I knew how to do something correctly. They were truly gracious and knowledgable people. Especially when it came to teaching me, a lowly native English speaker, about all the English medical jargon I’d soon have to learn.
The time came. Surgery and drugs awaited me in the hospital basement. This was much better than the last basement in Las Vegas when I had those two things.
Dr. Wong also promised to give me Anesthesia this time! A bit forward if you ask me. But hey, this is Asia. When in Rome, do the Russians.
The deliciously beautiful nurse put me in a wheelchair to take me down to the basement. I knew she was lovely because my tummy growled with delight at the sight of her beautifully face-masked visage.
I told you my tummy knows food.
I wheeled down the dark hallway into a flickering blue room. It reminded me of sweet wonderful times as a child playing Resident Evil and other horror video games. This put me at ease.
Onto the surgery bed I went. It was a bit uncomfortable. I decided not to complain though, as Dr. Wong said I had better not. He knows best. And he was holding a sharp scalpel.
Besides, Jesus was staring down at me from across the room on a framed painting. Or he was looking at all the half-washed bloodstains on the floor from knowledgeably executed surgery in days past.
I also stared at the floor. But I was not sporting a Mona Lisa-esque smile like Mr. Jesus was. But he knows more than me. Apparently everything.
So I didn’t say anything.
The scrumptious nurse put a hosed mask on my face. She asked me where I was from. I said Canada. She said, “Okay, here’s Anesthesia.” I was instantly erect.
But, I didn’t even get the chance to scream in horror at the thought of my Russian love walking into that room and seeing my semi spread-eagle legs in the buttless hospital gown I was wearing. Nor enough time to enjoy the erection. Maybe the nurse did.
I woke up 3 to 90 hours later in a haze.
“Water.” I mumbled.
I received only confused looks.
“Water.” I mumbled again in a terrible Mandarin accent.
They rehydrated me and took me back to the room upstairs. My belly was rumbling something fierce now, I knew it must’ve seen Anesthasia while I was sleeping.
My knee throbbed. I knew the drugs were wearing off. This was much different than the last time in a basement. My butt was throbbing that time. I didn’t know why then either.
General Wong came to my room a few hours later. I’m sure he was smiling underneath his facemask. That meant he had great news for me. I was sure.
“Upon making the initial incision into your knee joint, I was shocked to discover the patella was unstable and I had incorrectly diagnosed the original problem.”
“Tummy, please help translate this,” I whispered embarrassingly. I didn’t want the General to know my unknowns.
Nothing but silence. My knowledgeable tummy had finally met its match. That arrogant bitch.
“I instead decided to suture and stitch the cartilage pad to the surrounding tissue, providing support for it in the future.”
Support? He must’ve been talking about Anesthesia. She was impressed with the buttless hospital gown, after all! She clearly wanted to help support me through this tough time of healing.
“You will need to wear a brace for six weeks and not exercise at all.” The General commanded.
I thought this would damper the newly discovered passionate sex life I’d be having with Anesthesia. But General knows best. Besides, getting to know someone without having sex right away can lead to long-lasting relationships.
It also leads to a great release of love drugs. Dopamine I hear its called. This is different from Dope, as my mother always called me. Perhaps she knew about Anesthesia too? Surely not though, she was only a nurse.
What followed was months of disappointing recovery — for both my heart and knee. The Anesthesia I expected turned out not to be real. I was very disappointed.
I heard she only spent one night with me. That slut.
Even worse, General Wong turned out to be generally wrong. The surgery he performed on me wasn’t exactly standard procedure — whatever that means. This man was no general at all.
Dr. Wong didn’t know the correct alternative procedure to perform, apparently. My nurse mother told me this. Now I know she knows more than Mr. Wong.
I never did find out what that surgery was called. Even General Google couldn’t help me. And I hear Google knows a lot more than Mr. Wong.
But what do I know?
‘Rant’ over.
