The nurse was named Rose. An old-school name. However, the new wave of babies being born in Canada.

(well, it’s more like a trickle) seem to be tagged with Old School, Old World monikers. Like Noah, Oliver and Emma. I’m sure Ezekiel, Gertrude and Alma are soon to join the list.

John, Jim, Bob and Dave have been relegated to the periphery and soon to the old-folks’ homes. I’m told I should be filling out my application now.

But I could tell by the tenor of Rose’s voice that she was 60+.

“Do you drink?” she asked. My throat tightened, the same feeling as when my father caught me taking the family car and having a couple of beers, right after I had been expressly told not to do it.

“Ah…..well,….” coming face -to-face with your vices is always difficult. But Rose was relentless.

“Ummm, yes.” Honesty, I’ve been told, is always the best policy.

“Two drinks a day? More than two?”

This may call for a little deception. I felt like the accused on the witness stand who was being asked when he stopped beating his wife.

Rose was too sharp for me. She could flush out the intemperate even over the phone. Moving in for the kill, her impatience with my suspected over-imbibing was apparent. “You can’t drink before your operation. Do you go into withdrawal when you stop?”

This conversation had taken an unseemly turn. I didn’t even have time to make up another lie.

“I don’t know. I’ve never stopped.”

We had to go through the rest of the interview and happily Rose did most of the talking. I was told to visit the Medical Centre behind the Canadian Tire to purchase my crutches, cane and commode. (Don’t ask.)

I had finally decided to go ahead with my operation for a knee replacement. I had put it off because I could still play hockey and go to the gym, my two passions, although walking was difficult. My limping, bowlegged gait was the cause of much imitation and raucous gusts of guffaws from my hockey playing buddies. Great fun.

I played my last hockey game on Monday night before I would go under the knife (really, the saw) on Tuesday morning. I even went out for a beer with the guys after the game, although none of the cheap bastards shelled out for me after. My anaesthiologist, also a hockey player, had assured me that the hops would be good for me. You have to know which of the medical experts’ advice to follow.

The next morning I was wheeled into the operating room only two hours behind schedule. Thank God I wasn’t left on a gurney to die in a remote hallway like that poor devil in Nova Scotia. There was quite a crowd of blue-smocked attendants around me as the epidural was prepared. I questioned the need of this because even though our present view of reality goes the way of recognizing gender fluidity and the myth of only two sexes, I assured her I wasn’t in here in order to give birth. She smiled before she stabbed me, with the assurance that she knew that and this would prevent me from the annoying noise of a saw cutting through the knee bone.

And that’s the last I was aware of until I woke up and the medical team was cleaning up around me. Not even groggy, I was able to count the thirty staples now running down my knee. I was then wheeled down the hall by a good-natured friendly orderly to my room for an overnight stay, a room already occupied by two other bed-ridden senior men. We eyed each other warily, wondering which one of us would receive the bulk of attention from the young nurses.

Old guys sharing a hospital room. I remember watching my grandfather move around in his barn and how he looked to me. I’ll never get there, I remember thinking.

Damn, but it’s got here in a hurry!