A Medical Mystery (with All Original Parts)

When people start talking surgeries, medications, or hospital stays, I tend to sit quietly and wonder if I missed a rite of passage.

I’m in my late 60s, and the only time I’ve been near a hospital bed was 20 years ago for an outpatient procedure. No overnight stay. No gown. No jelly cup. I was home by lunchtime.

I take no medications. Not for blood pressure. Not for cholesterol. Not even for heartburn. My GP, who now greets me like a benign curiosity, recently said, “You must have good genes.” Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just been very fortunate.

What makes it stranger is that I’ve played a lot of contact sport over the years. The kind that leaves many people with busted knees, dodgy shoulders, or at least one story involving a cast. But somehow: no broken bones, no ligament tears, no concussions (at least none that I can remember). I still have my appendix. Still have my tonsils. Still have my dignity—although that’s up for debate.

Even my teeth have conspired in my favour. Over thirty years ago, a dentist solemnly recommended removing my wisdom teeth because they were going to cause problems in the future. I checked with a friend who was a dental nurse, and she said, “Don’t touch them unless they’re giving you grief.” I changed dentists. Three decades later, those teeth are still hanging out quietly in the back, doing whatever wisdom teeth are supposed to do when they’re not causing drama.

So yes, I’m aware this could change in an instant. But gratefully curious, how did I make it this far without being poked, prodded, stitched, or stapled?

I don’t have an answer. But I do have a growing appreciation for functioning knees, intact teeth, and a GP who seems just as surprised as I am.

Daily writing prompt

Have you ever had surgery? What for?

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