By the time you read this, I will be recovering from wrist surgery. It’s nothing serious, just something I acquired from a lousier-than-normal golf swing last summer. For the longest time, I just figured the pain wasn’t from the injury, but rather from getting older. But the pain didn’t go away, and once it started affecting my ability to hold my new granddaughters I thought I’d better get it checked out.
The surgery is an outpatient procedure, so I will be home later that same day. It’s not expected that the surgery will affect my ability to do my job as a reporter. I’ll still be able to type and get my stories in by the deadline.
Some of you will interpret that last line as good news. Others, well, maybe not so much.
It’s important that this column not go to print until after my surgery since I’m mentioning something I’ve noticed about my surgeon that I don’t want him to interpret as criticism.
He looks really young.
When I say he looks young, I mean that I’m pretty sure he can’t go into an establishment and order an alcoholic beverage without being asked for proof of his age.
I know I own several items of clothing that are older than him. Other things I have that are probably older than the good doctor include some of my albums (OK, all of my albums), at least one TV in our house, all of my baseball cards, a couple bottles of scotch and my marriage license.
Before you label me an ageist, settle down. Some of my favorite people are younger than I am. It’s just that I’ve grown accustomed to having a mental image of certain people in certain professions and I want doctors to look like they have years of experience under their belts.
Let’s just say that having a doctor who looks like he just got done watching Captain Kangaroo doesn’t fit my image of what a doctor who is going to slice open my wrist should look like. Of course, he’s too young to remember Captain Kangaroo.
I’m getting past his youthful visage and demeanor as I prepare for surgery. He really is very kind. I left my consultation with him a few weeks ago feeling confident in his abilities.
He has assured me that after a few weeks of physical therapy, I should be all set to hold my granddaughters. He also said I should be back playing golf as soon as the courses open this spring.
I asked him if I’d be a three handicap on the course when I got back to playing again. He told me he saw no reason that I wouldn’t be.
The joke’s on him. I’ve never been a three handicap on the golf course. He’s a doctor, not a miracle worker.