“Hey! So Let Me Tell Ya About My Operation! Oy Vay!"

“LOST MUSKET DIARY” Wednesday April 15, 2015

Brilliant Sunshine, Windy and Warmer 83°F/22°C in Rancho Santa Margarita

Buongiorno,

  Every time someone asks me how my arm surgery is coming along, I’m reminded of Lyndon 

LBJ's Operation

Johnson, our most socially indelicate President, who is not only remembered for his part in the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and the War on Poverty but also for showing the world the scar from his gall bladder surgery. So, in the spirit of our 37^th President, let me bring you up to date.

  After a couple of postponements and almost a year of procrastination, I checked into the hospital at the end of March, and checked out two days later with my right arm in a sling brace and a shiny new titanium joint installed in my shoulder. Dr. Jeff Sodl and his team had done some amazing work on me. And, so, after two weeks of being trussed like an extra in The Mummy Returns, I went 

OR Bound!

in for my two-week post-op checkup. First, the X-ray tech helped me out of the sling, and for a moment it felt like my arm would fall off on to the floor. But, it didn’t and it stayed attached while he took the x-rays. Then an LVN peeled away the bandages to remove the sutures. “Hmmm!” He said after a moment, “I don’t see any stitches or staples.” That’s when I showed off the fact that I really had read all the paperwork that I had been given before the operation.  “I think the doctor used Krazy Glue,” I said, launching into a history of that ubiquitous adhesive. “That’s what he did,” said the LVN. “He put you back together with a couple of screws and Krazy Glue!” “I’m OK with that,” I said. “In a world where they make repairs aboard the International Space Station with Duct Tape, I’m OK with Krazy Glue and a couple of screws.”

  Then, the Physician’s Assistant, Randy, checked it out. “Looks good. No sign of infection. Healing nicely. You’re good to go.” He showed me a couple of limbering-up exercises and warned me for the umpteenth time not to pick

Something New Added

up anything heavier than a hummingbird feather until the doctor gives the final clearance. He removed the pad and several straps that had kept my arm immobilized at my side and he sent me home to burn the shirt I had been wearing for two weeks and take a long, warm sudsy shower. Then he made another appointment for 30 days hence, warned me again about putting any weight on my arm and reminded me: no driving for the next month. The long, warm shower was an assignment that I tended to right after I returned from Lola’s morning walk.

   Later, as my daughter helped me on with a fresh shirt, I commented on the large, angry bruises on my side, chest and right arm. I looked like a sailor who had just survived a tavern brawl with a herd of stevedores.  Dana, my daughter, the veterinary

Thanks Dr. Sodl!

trauma center nurse, chuckled and said, “Orthopedic surgery can be rough, dad. It takes a lot of leverage to do what they did.” When she started regaling me with some of her experiences rebuilding hips, legs and other repairs on large animals, I got the visual. In a few weeks I’ll meet up with George, the physical therapist and start getting ready to throw out the first pitch of the 2016 season, and thus write the finale to a stupid maneuver of mine that dates back to my old Radio Days 42 years ago.

   When asked about it, I usually brush it off with a remark like “old sports mishap,” or “old baseball injury.” Actually, I was batting in a pre-game exhibition event pitting the KMPC disk jockeys against the wives or girlfriends of the California Angels baseball team. Saundra Willis, who was brand new to the station’s publicity department, persuaded me to bat as the “Designated Hitter,” which was a new position in the American League that year-1973. Since the great Nolan Ryan was pitching for the Angels then, I as the temporary DH for that game would be actually taking my idol’s place in the line-up. I was flattered. Saundra hooked me on the idea, and I agreed to go along with the gag. The night of the game, the jocks dressed up in major league baseball uniforms with the KMPC logo. Long time listeners to the station will remember the names: Dick Whittinghill, Geoff Edwards, Wink Martindale, Gary Owens, Roger Carroll, Johnny Magnus, Sonny Melendrez, newsman Dave De Soto and yours truly as Designated Hitter. “Where’s my uniform,” I asked Saundra. “Here it is. You get to wear the gorilla suit!” I balked, but she was a smooth talker and, after she batted her eyes a few times and patted me on the head, I suited up. At the appointed moment, I as DH with bat in hand bounded to the batter’s box.

"Now Coming to Bat, Mike Botula!"

Nolan Ryan’s wife lobbed a huge beach ball right over home plate. Obviously she had learned a thing or two from her husband. “S-T-E-E-R-I-I-K-E!” the umpire called, and the catcher picked up the ball and carried it back to the mound. Saundra, who was now playing the role of batting coach, approached me at the plate and we huddled. “You were supposed to hit the ball,” she said. “I couldn’t even see the goddam thing because of the gorilla mask,” I snapped. She adjusted my mask and as she stepped away, she instructed me, “You’ve got to hit it this time!” Dick Enberg’s voice came over the PA speaker. “One strike. Designated Hitter is waving the bat. Here’s the pitch!”  (Long pause) “A solid hit! Oh, my! Looks like he’ll go for four.” I swung the bat with everything I had. When I connected, the beach ball exploded in a cloud of white powder showering me, the gorilla suit, the catcher and Saundra with billows of talcum powder. In the stands, fans cheered me as I rounded third and headed for home. It was my personal “great moment in sports.”

   Only after the game did I feel the sharp pain in my right shoulder. I had seriously pulled a shoulder muscle when I over swung on that first pitch.  Years passed, the shoulder injury flared up from time to time, but it never really caused a problem until after I retired and old age began to catch up with me. I was eventually diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis which aggravated the old simian injury to my shoulder. By the time Dr. Sodl read my MRI and made his diagnosis, I was eligible for a complete shoulder joint replacement, the whole enchilada. So far we’re doing well on the comeback trail, but my baseball days are history.

  Ciao,

  MikeBo

© By Mike Botula 2015