Is it time for a bad vein update? I suppose it is. The surgeries are complete and barring new vascular problems I should be fine. All told, I had three surgeries in three months: separate endovenous laser procedures on veins in my right and left thighs, and another operation to clamp off perforated ladder veins in my right calf. My last endovenous laser procedure was three days ago. I’m going on a short hike today and by this time next week should be back to normal.
I suspect the deterioration of veins in my legs is the result of repeated exposure to high G forces. Actually, it was my doctor who, when he learned I flew fighters in the US Air Force, first suggested the possibility. This makes sense to me and I want to pursue it. I’ve searched on line for medical studies but haven’t found any. I’m trying to contact an old buddy who was an aviation physiologist for the USAF but so far have not been able to connect.
The most logical people for me to turn to, however, are fellow retired high-performance fighter aircrews, and here I’m running into a problem: I can’t bring myself to violate the fighter pilot code. One does not discuss personal weakness, and fessing up to a medical problem is tantamount to saying “I’m weak.” A mature person would spit on the code; apparently I’ve not attained that level of maturity. I’m working on it, though.
Meanwhile, here’s a story for you.
During my last endovenous laser procedure, the nurse told me to strip and put on a pair of skimpy paper underpants. The vein they were going to work on ran from just above my knee all the way up to my groin, and the only conceivable purpose of the underpants was to spare me some embarrassment. But the first thing the surgeon did was to cut the paper underpants away so that he could get to my groin, and for the next hour or so I lay there fully exposed to the surgeon and two female nurses. Well, that’s par for the course, I thought, and no big deal. Then the surgeon finished and left, and I was alone with the nurses. They cleaned me up and started to wrap my leg, and as they wound the elastic bandage around and around from my knee up to my groin, the younger and more attractive of the two stopped and said “Would you hold your testicles to one side while I finish wrapping your leg?” “Oh, sure,” I said, as calmly as if she’d asked me to pass the salt.
Hell, that was three days ago, and I’m still traumatized!