Four months after having a knee replacement, I stumbled into the bathroom at 3am, not fully awake, hoping to urinate.
Losing my balance, I fell. The result was a compound fracture of my left leg — the one with the prosthetic knee.
Gazing at my shiny white kneecap, I lost all logic, all control. I simply cried.
At eighty, I was unprepared for this unexpected anatomy lesson: my twenty-nine years as a surgeon …