My Ortho Family

For the past decade or so I’ve been going regularly to an orthopedic clinic to have various broken parts of my body pieced back together again, or at least jury rigged with bailing wire and duct tape. I’ve shown up alternatively for treatment and surgery for Dupuytren’s Contracture in both hands and Osteoarthritis in my left knee and hands. It took maybe a dozen visits before the receptionists recognized me and, foregoing my name, only had to ask “Which doctor are you seeing today?” The clinic is large, usually with 15-20 patients waiting in the lobby. A nurse will come out every couple of minutes and call out a name and take the patient back to an examining room. Not me. The nurse just comes to the lobby, finds me without calling my name, says “Ready?”, and back we go. My file is the size of a phone book. I’ve suggested they go digital to save them space and having to wheel it down the hall on a dolly whenever I visit. (It’s under consideration.)

After the first few years of this I felt bad about being reminded repeatedly how decrepit my body is and how old I’m getting. It’s somewhat depressing to have a tab at an orthopedic clinic (they no longer ask for my co-pay when I check out). But recently I’ve been feeling more positive about my relationship with the doctors, nurses, technicians, and staff at the clinic. Our familiarity is comforting, like visiting old friends. No, more like family. My ortho family. We should make a TV commercial, one of those where I enter, happy and smiling, limping on my cane, and they gather around me, cheerful and welcoming. Maybe there are balloons. And flowers. And the Turtles’ “Happy Together” is playing. What knee replacement? What degenerative bone disease? "So happy together."