What happened that day . . .

by Ken

The first thing I remember hearing as I regained consciousness was somebody asking somebody else if the somebody else had heard about what happened in Boston. What with my still-woozy state and the time it took to be moved to someplace where I had even minimal media accesst, it must have taken me awhile to piece together what-happened-in-Boston that day, a year ago yesterday, but in the days that followed I had an inoridnate amount of face time with the talking TV, so along with everyone else I was able to glean the occasional bits of news out of the 95 percent that could most fairly be described as news gibberish.

When my doctor's surgical coordinator had first proposed April 15 as a date for my knee-replacement surgery, I divined the hand of destiny: Apart from maybe January 1 or July 4, what easier date could there be to remember, then and forever? Of course I had no idea that "my" April 15 would be permanently linked with such an explosive public story.

I didn't have much time to reflect on that anniversary Monday or yesterday because I was in the grip of an even more than usually terror-ridden face-off with the "real" April 15. Thanks in good part to my surgical adventure and the related medical leave, I had what was for me an unusual and confusing tax year, the consequences of which were shrouded in mystery until I got up the courage to plug all the data into the tax software. Even I wasn't ridiculous enough to leave that whole process till April 15, but April 14 didn't give me all that large a head start.

As usual I was both surprised and relieved to survive the ordeal. What's more, in these days of electronic filing, it no longer even involves a countdown-to-midnight schlepp to NYC's General Post Office on Eighth Avenue between 31st and 33rd Streets. (In the olden days of GPO-schlepping, there were years when the countdown cut it close indeed to the midnight witching hour. The worst part was having the TV on during the counting-down hours with live shots of the tax laggards who had only just made their way to the GPO -- still ahead of me.)

This morning there was still no time to reflect on the "other" anniversary, as I had to wend my way to my appointment for the one-year follow-up appointment with my doctor, or rather to the radiology floor an hour ahead of my appointment to have new X-rays taken first. Eventually I was sent off instructions to return for new X-rays in five years. Or when the other knee, in none too good shape, cries out for more intimate attention.

The one thing about the surgery which I was infinitely grateful for was that I have no awareness of anything, not even the passage of time, from the moment I was put under till the moment I regained some level of awareness -- and heard that question about what happened in Boston.

A year later I'd love to be able to say I have some thoughts worth sharing about what happened in Boston, or even a thought. But I don't.

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