Surgery: Chapter 17

We woke up before dawn on the morning of July 17 because we had to be at the hospital by 6:00 am. The only good thing about driving anywhere so early is that there is very little traffic. We got to the hospital and found a parking space without a problem (so this is what time you have to get here to find a parking space). We went to the surgery check-in place. The woman there was way too bright and cheerful for 6:00 AM I asked her:
“How can you be so happy this early?” She told me that she loved the mornings. The woman was a young, pretty and dressed very nicely. I could tell that she loved gold jewelry. She had on so many necklaces that she made Mr. T look under-dressed. After checking in, we went to another area where Mark and I were separated. He had to stay in the waiting room (I can not grade this waiting room because I have no memory of it), while I followed another woman to the patient area. This woman was slightly older than the first woman. She was not as cheerful and not wearing any gold (cause and effect?). But she was very nice and showed me where to change from my street clothes to hospital clothes, then she put my clothes in a bag and tagged it.
Next I went into a room that could best be described as a patient’s staging area. Mark was there to meet me.
This area was bizarre; there were six patients, each in our own curtained-off area. Doctors, nurses and technicians were coming and going into each area. One Asian woman came to my bedside to get information, then someone else came in and took even MORE information. I was given an ID bracelet and put on an IV. Eventually a blondish man came in to my area and introduced himself as Dr. Davis-my anesthesiologist, finally. He was very handsome. I had seen so many good looking people employed in that hospital, that I was starting to wonder if someone from central casting was running the personnel office.
Dr. Davis and I talked for a few minutes. He explained the process (in laymen’s terms) of the anesthesia. Then he asked if I had any allergies.
“No, I don’t have any allergies, but I do suffer from ‘Cheap Date' Syndrome.” Dr. Davis burst out laughing. Mark was sitting next to me holding my hand and laughing too.
I turned to Mark and said.
“See, he understands.”
Dr. Davis composed himself, then said:
“I think what you’re trying to tell me that you are drug sensitive, right?” I nodded yes. He then said: “I just never quite heard it put that way before.” We talked for a few more minutes then he left.
Since Dr. Davis laughed at my joke and because I was able to check his breath to make sure that it didn't smell of alcohol (by talking low so he had to bring his head close to me to be able to hear me) I decided that he was ok.
At this point a woman came up to us and introduced herself as my surgical nurse. My mind started calling her Glamour Nurse. She told me it was time to go in to the operating room.
Her tone of voice told me that she was a no-nonsense gal. She had highlighted hair. "Glamour Nurse" was older than most of the women who had been prepping me. She seemed to be around my age I think, but it was hard to tell because she was wearing a surgical mask and all I could see of her face was her eyes. What struck me as odd was all of the eye make-up that she wore. It was only 7: a.m. and we were on our way to an operating room, not a Nightclub. Why would she be wearing all that make-up? I wondered. Then again, why did that other woman wear all those gold chains? I guess that in an atmosphere of sickness and death, each person finds something to make themselves feel better.
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I was wheeled into the operating room by "Glamour Nurse" and someone else. The gurney came a stop, and I started looking around. The room was not what I had expected. It was huge. Three of the walls were painted yellow and the forth wall was floor to ceiling cabinets that looked like transparent glass or plastic. The cabinets were filled with items used in the operating room. It looked very organized. My closets should look so good! The room had lots of scary looking equipment. I didn't know what half of the machines were. I also noticed that the room was cold… I don’t like cold.
As they moved me from the gurney to the operating table, I was surprised how narrow the operating table was, I kept thinking:
“This bed is too narrow. I move a lot when I sleep and I am going to roll off!” What was I thinking? This wasn’t the hotel Ritz, this was an operating room. I decided the table was narrow so that the surgeons could work on their patients without reaching so far, but I still felt like I was going to fall off.
As I was being hooked up to the equipment, both Dr. Sullivan and Dr. Asgari approached me. I read somewhere that surgeons liked to disassociate themselves from their patients before surgery because the doctors need to focus on the process, not the patient. Since I knew this before hand I told myself that I would be on my best behavior.
So there I was, lying on the skinny table looking up at three masked faces. On the right is Dr. Sullivan, his gentle smiling brown eyes looking down at me in a reassuring way. In the middle Glamour Nurse with her over made-up eyes looking at me, then scanning the room watching the other nurses, doing their work. On my left was Dr. Asgari, his brown eyes acknowledge me and then move away and he was deep in thought.
Behind me I heard the anesthesiologist, he started to talk to me again and we started to joke with each other. I couldn’t resist, I tried to bring the other doctors in on the joking. They tried to join in for a second or two, then stepped away from me (I hope to re-focus). After another minute or two of joking, Dr. Davis became quiet and professional and I hear those dreadful words.
“Now count back from 100.”
“100.” At least he didn’t tell me that a member of my family ruined his life.
“99.” I love Mark and the girls, I will miss them when I die.
“98.” I will see my mother soon.
“97...” ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
-
Beep…beep…beep…everything looked blurry, then clear.
“I am alive.” I whisper to myself. I looked around. I was in a room that I had never seen before. It was a large room with curtains sectioning off my little area.
“I am alive.” I whispered again, this time a little louder. I was hooked up to some a machine.
“I AM ALIVE!!!” My brain shouted. A nurse was sitting to my left. She was another young, pretty woman. Next to her was another patient on a gurney. The nurse must have been monitoring both of us.
“Welcome back.” She said in the kindest voice that I had ever heard. “How do you feel?” she asked. Sounding very un-original, I said:
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
She just smiled, then said: "I called your husband as soon as you came out of surgery. How far away do you live?”
“About twenty minutes.” I answer.
“Figuring time to park he should be here any minute.” She checked what ever I was hooked up to and went to her monitoring desk, which I could see from my bed.
Before the surgery, Mark and I had agreed that he would to go home rather than wait for me at the hospital. In movies and TV shows, when someone is in surgery, their family is seen in the waiting room pacing back and forth and bugging every doctor or nurse that comes in to view. That may make great drama, but in reality I think it is dumb.
Frances had told me that her double mastectomy and reconstruction had taken about ten hours. My doctors told us that my surgery would take six or seven hours. I am a very pragmatic person and I think sitting in a hospital for seven hours is a waste of time and Mark is not good at doing nothing. If I knew that he was waiting for me in the hospital, I would be worried about him pacing in the halls. Since we both felt that I needed to concentrate on me, we decided it would be better for him to go home and work on his 66’ Dodge Charger, and come back to the hospital after the surgery.
Working on the car always makes him happy. He can easily lose himself working in the garage, and time passes quickly for him. We asked that Mark be called as soon as I was wheeled out of surgery. By the time I woke up, he would be there by my side. So much for the best laid plans.
I slowing moved from being groggy to being fully awake. No Mark. The nurse came by and checked on me and we chatted. No Mark. The guy next to me moved to a room where his whole family was waiting for him. Still no Mark. The nurse calls my house again. No answer.
In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I am a worst case scenario- type person. By this time I was convinced that Mark was dead in a car accident. I was starting to get very upset, so was the nurse. Someone came by and told her it was time to move me to my room. I had been in recovery much longer than I should have, and they needed to move me to my room. The nurse won't let them move me, saying that she would check the waiting room one more time. A few minutes later running back to the recovery room saying:
“We found your husband, and you won’t believe this.” She told me that my surgery went much faster that expected, the operation was only four hours long. They called my husband when they were supposed to, someone sent a volunteer to the waiting area to find Mark as planned. She must have just missed him, so everyone thought that he was not there. So he sat and waited for someone to get him, while they were waiting for him to show up, Anyway they found him.
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Once Mark was located I was moved to my room. The irony was that since Mark is a minister he can move around the hospital with fewer restrictions that the average visitor. Mark could have entered the recovery room at any time!
He didn’t hunt down anyone to ask about my stats for two reasons. First, he is a very polite person. Second, as he looked around the waiting room he saw people who had a family member who entered surgery around the same time that I did, and they were still waiting for information about their loved one. At least Mark knew I had survived my surgery, so he waited, until my nice nurse finally made the connection between Mark and me.
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Mean while, I slowly woke up. Along with the joy of realizing I was still alive I also came to the realization that my body was numb. As the anesthesia wore off, I started to feel pain. Although the pain was concentrated in my torso, I hurt from my hair to my toes, with the pain increasing every second. I didn’t think it was possible for a body to hurt this much. After all, I have experienced pain before. I had given birth to two children. But this hurt much more. I didn't think it was possible for my body to handle any more pain.
Soon I was unhooked from the monitor and some people pushed my gurney through the catacombs of the hospital. We turn left, then we turn right, in an elevator-up, down who knows. We go over hill and over dale, and through the woods (ok I just made that one up.) It seemed like they were pushing me forever. My biggest fear was that I would become one of those ‘left in the hallway people: Luckily my gurney kept moving. Eventually I arrived to a room.
The first thing I noticed was a handsome young man standing next to an empty bed. He was wearing some kind of loose white shirt that looked like it had mice riding motorcycles on it-man those drugs were gooooood. On his command the gurney was moved parallel to the empty bed.
“On three.” Motorcycle Max said.
“Your not moving me are you?” I stupidly asked.
“One.” He continued.
“This is going to hurt.” I thought.
“Two…three” they lifted me from the gurney to the bed.
“Ouchhhhhhhhhhhh” I yelled. If I thought that I was in pain before, it was nothing compared to this agony. This was the worst pain that I had ever experienced. I hope that I never feel pain like that again.