You gotta get up early to have a professional put you to sleep these days. Five in the morning I took what will be my last unimpeded shower for the next three months. Shaved, got dressed in "flat shoes and loose clothes" (as per instructions), left my wallet, keys, money, et. al. in the drawer, and walked out into the morning darkness. The smell of the eucalyptus trees in the cold was bracing and refreshing, a perfect send off. I turned to Betsey and said "Why is it all of our adventures in life start out early in the morning, before the sun has come up?" She laughed.
The Surgery Center was the only light shining from inside the gray block building, and while filled with people it was oddly quiet, the blanket of worry fully tucked around the spouses, children, parents, and friends of those of us headed beyond the great white door in the back. But we live in a pay for play world, so before you can have your Calcaneal osteotomy plantar fascia tendon lengthening and ligament repair first you have to pony up the dollars, or at least the co-pay, for the operation. And of course sign page after page of disclosures, agreements, and other assorted legalities associated with medicine these days. I'm probably not that far off to say that I don't think anyone has ever fully read each one of those pages before surgery. The best I could do was scan the legalese to make sure I wasn't given them unfettered access to my bank account or permission to use my genetic material for further research purposes with recompense to myself or my heirs. Then it was back into the green sea of waiting room chairs to await my name being called.
It wasn't too long a wait. A pleasant looking nurse named Brooke lead me through the great white door, calmly informing me that I was to go into the restroom on the left where a surgical gown and slippers awaited me. She gave me instructions on how to adjust the gown which I was grateful for since none of it made much sense to me. The gown had vents in it so they could pump warm air into it when I was in post-op, a new fangled development I was unaware the medical industrial complex had come up with. The vents I initially took for the arm holes, which made donning the gown more difficult then one would imagine. Only after figuring out the map coordinates for the gown was I able to put it on properly. Not very stylish, but effective for the job.
The pre-op room was filled with others who had negotiated the puzzle of the gown. Brooke guided me to an overstuffed chair and proceeded to give me the prescribed interrogation (what's your name, what's your birth date, what are you here for, etc.) before starting the IV of tranquility juice. The surgical nurse came by and did the interrogation again, then the anesthesiologist did the same. Of course the tranquility juice was beginning to take effect, so my answers were coming a little slower each time.
At last it was time to head to the operating room. Unlike the movies there was no gurney or even a wheelchair, no chance for me to groggily look up to see a vision of my loved ones promising to take care of me. Instead I had to walk the green mile down the hall to the OR. I was feeling slightly cheated. At least they didn't make me carry my own IV drip bag, the surgical nurse being kind enough to do that. My room was at the end of the hall, past every other room. Just like the airport, I thought to myself, my flight is always at the furthest gate.
Walking into an operating room is like stepping onto another world. It's so white it hurts the eyes. There are these strange suns orbiting the surgical table, providing more light then anyone could possibly need. Unlike so many other places filled with people, there is a pervasive sense of purpose to each ones movements, yet it is quiet as can be. There is not even the hum of activity, only the quiet.
I got on the table, was given the interrogation once more, then the anesthesiologist put the mask on my face and said "You'll be asleep in twenty seconds". I thought how I doubted that.
The next thing I knew I was in the recovery room with Brooke asking if I had any pain. Pain? I didn't know what I felt. Well there was some cramping in my foot. Actually it was really bad cramping. Actually it was really really bad cramping. Holy crap my foot hurt. Oh man it hurt. No problem said Brooke and over came a young doctor with a dose of nerve block and suddenly my foot didn't hurt anymore. Then again I couldn't feel anything from the top of my calf on down. Which all together wasn't a bad thing. It was only then that I saw a clock and realized I had been out for a lot longer than I had been told it would be. My surgeon came over and related how she had found a huge amount of scar tissue that was so difficult to cut through that they had to use some kind of special surgical tool. Oh and instead of surgical staples, she had to use screws. Great, I've gone from office supplies to hardware.
My time was up, I had to get out of there to allow for some other needy soul. The wheelchair finally made an appearance and out into the brilliant afternoon sun I went. Getting into the car was surprisingly easy, but then again I had been practicing for the past several days on how to do such things on only one leg. I should mention here that though I was given crutches to prevent me from putting any weight on my foot, I opted to get what is called a knee scooter. It looks like a child's Razor scooter with handle bars and handle brakes. One puts there bad leg up on the seat and propels with the good leg.
We got back home with me falling into an almost sleep along the way. The scooter took me from the car to my bed where I collapsed. There wasn't even time for Betsey to ask me if I wanted anything before I fell into a deep sleep. I had never wanted to sleep more than I did right then.
No comments:
Post a Comment