I celebrated my 51st anniversary of the day I became a paraplegic just two days ago as I write this.

It started with a big breakfast — three eggs, three pieces of Canadian bacon and two slices of Dave’s Killer Bread — knowing it would be my last meal of the day. An out¬patient surgical suite was waiting for me at Providence Portland Medical Center. I would be getting my first Botox injections in my bladder, and the urologist, a new one for me, insisted that I be anesthetized.

Words that end that way creep me out (hospitalized, anesthetized, euthanized, cannibalized).

My daughter drove me to the joint and they incarcerized me, poked me, sucked my blood, started an IV. A green-suited gnome did an EKG that took all of 3 seconds. I will be charged about $300 for that, if I’m lucky. If you count the time it took the gnome to patch me with electrodes, flick the switch, then rip the electrodes and hair from my chest, it came to 20 seconds, which calculates to $54,000 per hour.

I spent the next two hours waiting in my cell, growing increasingly agitated. My new urologist was, sadly, not on my good guy list. When he first requested my Botox pre-authorization, it was denied. I think he made a poor case for it. So I sent him an official letter asking that he do an expedited appeal, which means a simple phone call to the insurance company doctor who decides these things. They messed up, missed the call appointment and had to schedule it all over again.  Weeks later, they finally spoke. I had emailed my urologist my reasons for the appeal. He never responded so I asked his assistant to hand-deliver them. She did, the call happened, and my appeal was approved.

So they scheduled my Botox procedure for another four weeks down the road. I was to go in on the anniversary of my plane crash and be there at 1 p.m. The procedure would take place at 3 p.m. A week before the big day arrived, I received a call. The procedure had been moved back to 5 p.m.

So there I was, waiting in my cell at 5 p.m., and no one had checked on me for over an hour. Finally a nurse entered and told me the doctor had not arrived at the hospital yet and he had one more operation before mine. My procedure was moved back again, to 8 p.m. at night, which meant I would most likely have to spend the night hospitalized.

“No,” I said. “I will not stay and I will not wait another minute. I am out of here.” I called my wife, told her to pick me up and discharged myself.

We went directly to a favorite restaurant, drank some good wine, reminisced about the good old days and feasted on a gourmet meal that was both healthy and delicious. I got a little tipsy and felt grateful to be alive — an annual ritual I have grown to honor. Finally, I was properly anniversarized.