I read a fascinating — well, interesting — article the other day about the advances being made in medical science, specifically in the area of organ transplants, and the disturbing fact that the demand for transplantable organs is fast outweighing the availability of healthy ones. So we’re now looking — not at the traditional kind — but at transplants of organs from pigs. Those adorable little pink or grey or spotted creatures named Babe, or Petunia, or Porky, whose tissues and organs are remarkably compatible with ours.

The article went into a good bit of technical detail as to how the scientists first create a clone of an existing pig, then somehow alter it to reduce the likelihood of organ rejection or the transmission of innate infectious something-or-other . . . way beyond my ability to absorb. And I found myself wanting to save all the little porkers, and swearing to switch to turkey bacon.

And then I remembered something . . .

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Back in the 1990s, somehow or other the rotator cuff in my right shoulder was torn. I have no idea how it happened; I’m not a tennis player . . . not an athlete of any kind. But there it was . . . it hurt, I could barely raise my right arm, and it needed to be repaired. So my favorite orthopedic surgeon — we’ll call him Dr. L. — scheduled me for the procedure, I arranged medical leave from my job, and I began practicing doing all sorts of things left-handed.

The surgery went well, and I was only in the hospital for a couple of days. About a week after returning home, I was set to have the stitches removed in my doctor’s office. Now, it’s important to know that Dr. L. — in addition to being an exceptionally skilled surgeon — has a devilish sense of humor. Having already done knee replacements for both my sister and me, he joked that it would just take a couple more operations and he would be able to afford to build a wing on his house, which he would name after us.

When he walked into the examining room that morning, he had with him a student from one of the local medical schools — a quiet, eager young man who was clearly honored to be learning at the side of this eminent physician. And as Dr. L. was snipping away at the new railroad track on my shoulder, he was also providing the student with a running commentary on the original procedure. And that was when I learned just how badly torn my rotator cuff had been — so bad that “extraneous tissue” had been needed for the repair. As it happened, the best available option was porcine tissue. Yes, that’s “porcine,” as in “from a pig.” In effect, I had a piece of pork now residing in my right shoulder. This was something very new at the time, and still on the innovative side, and I could see the student looking at me as though waiting for me to freak out. Which I didn’t. Instead, I was fascinated. My initial response, as I recall, was, “Really? That is so cool!”

Then came the funny part. Seeming to switch gears, Dr. L. launched into a story about the evening following my operation, which happened to be the first night of Passover. He had been hosting the traditional seder at his home, and was describing this new procedure using porcine tissue. Not my idea of dinner table conversation, but I didn’t grow up in the household of a physician.

Anyway, his adult son appeared disturbed about something, and asked (this, of course, is paraphrased): “Dad, I don’t understand. How could you ethically put the tissue of a pig into the body of a Jewish woman without her permission . . . and on the eve of Passover??!!!”

To which Dr. L. calmly replied: “Well, it was an unforeseen circumstance, and I could hardly wake her to ask if it was okay. And besides, you don’t know this woman. She would have just yelled at me for bothering her and told me to do my damned job.” And he was right.

As he talked, I saw the med student’s eyes getting wider and wider, just waiting for me to react. And I did . . . but not as he had expected. Instead, I burst out in laughter that was heard all the way down the hall to the reception room. I immediately named my right shoulder “Babe,” and went on a search for the perfect little pig brooch, which I have proudly worn on the right shoulder of my jackets ever since.

I should also point out that my sister had a favorite expression when she wanted to indicate that something was never going to happen: “When pigs fly!” Thus, the little wings.

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As for the much more serious matter of heart, liver and kidney transplants, I’m torn between cheering for the potential benefits to mankind and mourning the loss of all of those sweet little oinkers. I’m afraid it’s a moral dilemma I’m not really qualified to solve . . . though at the moment, vegetarianism is starting to look really good to me.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
1/31/24