Snakes Don't Have Legs

Groucho Marx had what I consider to be one of the greatest lines ever uttered on national TV. During an introduction of a contestant on his game show, You Bet Your Life, an elderly looking woman was asked her age. She responded, “ I am approaching 50”, to which Groucho quipped, “From which side?”

As I am approaching 50 - I‘ll leave that to you to decide from which side - I continue to be amazed how little things have changed for me, at least from my perspective. I still feel like the same guy I was 30 years ago, I still have relatively the same values and still harbor the same misguided confidence I had back then.

Through many years of foolish endeavors, of completely asinine thought processes and flagrant disrespect for what can happen to a human body, I soldiered on, inflicting the most unfair punishment on myself - from hurtling down snowy slopes on skis to loosing my grip on a horizontal bar while in the midst of a giant swing and tumbling head over tail across half of the gymnasium floor. I have ricocheted from wave to wave, falling off of boats at high speeds, and tumbled down so many cliffs, trees and buildings that I have lost count. But never in all my escapades did I ever end up with more than a few stitches or the odd cast. That is, until a little while ago.

In a period of a few months I faced surgery not once, but twice. One time to repair a lingering problem, and another due to an emergency situation I had no control over. With this surgery, I saw the inside of an operating room for the first time. What fascinated me the most was the whole process of getting into surgery. I have a whole new appreciation of why the costs are as they are for our much-maligned health care system. The care and absolute attention to detail astounded me. It was an eye-opener to discover that when I went into surgery, it was not simply a matter of a doctor grabbing a scalpel and starting to slice and dice. My surgery was the culmination of many, many people working to make sure everything went smoothly. By smoothly, I of course mean that I emerged from the end of the surgery, a) alive and b) minus the right parts.

I was amazed with the activity around me during both, the amount of tests that were done and the monitoring of all metabolic levels, some levels, I didn’t even know I had. When I was first put on a gurney and started to be wheeled into surgery, I was surrounded by a phalanx of people. I felt like Mohammad Ali entering into the stadium for a fight. I had my “crew”of four or five people all flanking me as I was wheeled down a hallway and into the OR. Most were encouraging me, letting me know everything that was going on and what to expect. For the first experience I opted for an epidural so I was conscious for the whole operation. This is a good thing and a bad thing: the good thing was there was no “hangover” effect of anesthesia, the bad thing is that I could see and hear everything that was going on. If my arms weren’t stretched out on either side of me I could have twiddled my thumbs to past the time. As it was, I listened to the music that was playing, thankfully the surgeon didn't opt for The First Cut is the Deepest.

The second round was much more of a rush situation, but still it amazed me how many people were looking after me. Because I had abdominal surgery, I didn’t have an option for anesthesia; I was getting a general. I remember the anesthesiologist saying to me that I should start to get light headed and as the room started to spin, I think my last words to the nurse were, “…and I used to spend $60.00 on a bottle of Glenfiddich for the same effect.” Next thing I knew I was in the recovery room, and after an hour or so, I was moved to a ward room.

I slowly became aware of my surroundings and just lay there listening to the three other men in my room. They were all talking about the major procedures they had undergone. Each was facing daunting changes in the ways in which he was to lead the rest of his life. When they became aware that I was back in the conscious world, one of them asked me, “So what are you in for?” It was at that moment I understood how Arlo Guthrie must have felt when he was assigned to the Group W bench in his anti-draft anthem, Alice’s Restaurant. Just as he reluctantly confessed to these father-rapers that he was in for littering, I told my ward-mates that I was in for an appendix. I am sure that if they could have gotten up, they would have all moved away from me. But like Arlo, when I started to create a fuss, repeatedly pushing my call button and demanding more morphine, things got better between us.

I was released from hospital the follow day and told not to do very much. That is a lot harder than it sounds. I spent time reading and getting my kids to do most of the running around for me. What I didn’t keep in mind, however, was the medication I was on and how it could affect my thought processes. During dinner, I tried to explain to everyone about an article I read; it was about why we can approach animals in the wild more easily in a canoe or a bicycle instead of walking. The article said it has to do with the unnatural rhythm of our walking motions and how the animal’s instincts of a predator are thrown off by this. It also related why some people don’t like snakes, again having to do with this unnatural type of movement. When they asked me what this has to do with snakes, I said, rather authoritatively, “Well, you know. Snakes don’t have legs.”

The stunned silence was overwhelming. In that drug induced moment of what I thought was a rational thought, I think my kids finally found what they believe is a fitting epitaph for my headstone. Of all the intelligent and thoughtful things I have ever written or said, “Snakes don’t have legs” is the one that they think will last.