If we live long enough, most of us will face the prospect of “going under the knife”. It’s what they don’t tell you that really matters.
Having been down this road before, it was was with a sense of trepidation, even impending doom, that I anticipated my rapidly approaching “surgical event”. I already had a second opinion, and even revisited the highly regarded Doc for another opinion about his 2nd opinion, trying to see if I could construct any rationale for delaying what everyone said shouldn’t be delayed..
The Event was scheduled for 7:30 Monday morning which translated to a 5:30 am arrival time at the hospital which meant that I’d be hanging around for an hour or so before anything really happened (I thought). I wasn’t expecting much of a night’s sleep, but I did expect a little. I flopped around in my bed until about 3:00 when I heard S. stirring. I’d asked her to nudge me at 4:30, but I didn’t need the nudging. After a quick shower and shave I was ready to go, but stalled until a little after 4:00. Presby Hospital isn’t that far away, but I rationalized that we might get held up by traffic, and left post haste. Needless to say, traffic wasn’t a problem and I was first to the admitting office. I was met by a very large woman with a ferocious scowl and a highly confrontational demeanor. Ahah, I thought, here’s the place for my “kill them with kindness” tactic. So I did and it did, a little. She only snarled when demanding that I sign yet another consent.
All this and it still wasn’t 5:30. She led S. and I to a room on another floor that she characterized as a “prep room”. She handed me off to another fierce looking woman with a small black mustache that drew my attention. She handed me the dreaded “hospital gown with no back” and said, I’ll be back for shaving when you’re dressed.” I didn’t know whether she was talking about me or her, but I feared the worst. There’s nothing quite like an intense woman with a razor telling you to spread your legs and lie still….which I did.
Thence, on to yet another bull pen. At this point my memory starts to fail. There is a collage of medical equipment, poking and prodding, some incomprehensible chatter with the anesthesiologist, signing of more consents (by this time I would have consented to anything), and a quick walk by of the Doc. I took it as a good sign that all the assembled staff spent some time kissing his ring. He graced me with a genuine but salubrious smile said he’d see me in the OR. It took me several seconds to figure out what the OR might be, but I’d been told that I’d already be zonked by the time I got there, so I figured I see the Doc on the other side.
Shortly, I was whisked to the OR (wide awake) which resembled more or less a hi-tech tool shed. There was much clanking of heavy metal and chit chatting, but at least I wasn’t asked to sign another consent. Elmore, the anesthesiologist Doc was looming over me saying something about deadening my sciatic nerve which would block part of the post-operative pain, but would cause some pain and twitching of my sciatic muscle. Which it did. He then said, “now I’ll locate your femoral nerve and insert a blocking agent which will also block much of your post-op pain.” He added ominously, “it shouldn’t take too long, but there will be some pain while I probe and, oh, your leg may jump around a bit until the block takes effect.” Jump around a bit!!! Are you kidding!!!! About that time he prodded his first prod and my body reacted like one of those guys on TV that they’re trying to bring back from the dead with electronic paddles. I shrieked, and he continued to prod. He prodded and my leg bounced around as if it were unconnected to the rest of my body. After the third or fifth or eleventh time, he got the right nerve, and my leg convulsions finally abated. Shortly, I was in La La land. No dreams, no fears, no hopes, no sensations of any kind.
The only good thing about waking up in the surgical recovery room is that you do wake up. In rapid succession there are several other thoughts that occur after the “thank god I’m still alive” thought. They are sequentially, “Aw s*#t, this really hurts”, and “jesus it’s cold in here”, and finally, “wow, do I really need to take a leak”. After that, everything kind of jumbles together until you’re wheeled into your room and even with the residue of a anesthetic haze, you notice assorted people peering at you and taking in a language you can’t understand. In so far as you can, you start to explore your situation. Which tube is connected to you through which orifice, which button controls the pain juice, and how limited is your range of motion or how little you even want to move. Laying inert and groaning is the greatest of pleasures.
We’re now ready to enter the more or less x-rated portion of the narrative, so if you’re queasy about bodily functions, now’s the time to skip ahead a paragraph or so.
It was now approaching 2:30 pm and I had not had physical sustenance since the previous evening at 7:30 pm or so (well, actually I did have a purely medicinal G and T about bedtime), and was feeling the pangs of hunger. I asked the first nursing person I could find for food, and she smiled benignly and brought me two small bottles of apple juice. Not exactly what I had in mind. I reacted as you might expect saying, “no, no, I meant some real food”. She scowled as only nurses can and said, “you obviously haven’t read your Bowel Management Plan”. I admitted that this was true, but failed to connect the apple juice, my hunger and the Bowel Management Plan. She leaned close to me and inquired, almost in a tender whisper, “have you passed gas yet?” I gasped, I think, but indicated a negative response to her indelicate query. She went on to explain in a more authoritative tone that there would be no solid food until that blessed event occurred. I acknowledged that I understood and resolved to deal with this matter forthwith. Easier said than done though; however, I can only say that I had ham and eggs for breakfast the next morning. Then there was phase two of the plan from which I will spare you delicate readers.
But finally the day comes. Home. That for which you had longed during those 2:00 am blood pressure sessions in the hospital. Home. Where you knew that food of your choice was close at hand. Home, with a soft, wide bed and a TV remote at your beck and call. Home. Where you start your physical therapy and rehabilitation in earnest. Home. The road to recovery passes through your own nest.
Just a word about pain. Let me say at the outset that I know Physical Therapists (PT’s) get a stereotypical bad rap. Why? Well for the most part it’s because they’re associated with you at your worst, or most defenseless, and, of course, there’s the PAIN. Ok. Be honest. What comes to mind when you think of a physical therapist? A youngish, delicate french looking guy with at too tight t-shirt? A babushka looking matron with a large nose wart and equally large biceps? Well, forget that. My physio had all of the 4 P’s. She was professional, persistent, patient, and pretty. But she had a mean streak. Those of you who’ve not had the pleasure cannot quite understand that the purpose of the physio is to get your body to do things that it can’t yet do, or can’t do naturally. That suggests that a mean streak is the only way to get their job done. It goes like this……”get that leg straight, oh, you can’t, well take this (as she exerts 1000 pounds of vertical pressure on the knee)”. Bend that knee….oh, it won’t bend any more….you’re just a wimp, let me pull it back (with 1000 pounds of reverse thrust). Ok, nows the time for for 1000 straight leg lifts, let me help with a little downward pressure”….aaargh, For christ’s sake lemme alone. And then it’s over. As she leaves with her implements of pain, the leg suddenly feels better. Maybe it’s the ice, maybe it’s the fact that you don’t have to do this again until tomorrow.
And so goes rehab.
Next time it’s directly to the wheel chair. Never again.
