Another Day in the Life

First, let me apologize in advance for what is likely to be a rambling, semi-coherent post. More so than usual, I mean. For some odd reason I feel obliged to report on my hernia operation. I guess it's because I've whined about it over the last several weeks and I feel I need to wrap it up... not sure why I bother, but here it is.

Unfortunately though, or I guess I should say, "fortunately", there's not a lot to report.

My appointment at the hospital was on Monday. I was told to arrive there at least an hour and a half before surgery, which was scheduled for 1:00. Not wanting to possibly lose my place in the surgery line, I made sure to get there a couple of minutes early. I brought along a book figuring that if this was going to be like most of my other doctor's visits, I was going to have a lot of time to kill. But when I made it to the waiting room, I sat down for all of five minutes before they had me go "out back". Out back is where all of the action takes place. For some reason, I had pictured it to be a longer walk from the Waiting Room. I was expecting a long, darkly lit hall lined with rooms on either side; rooms from which people's boney arms would reach out trying to slip me notes saying things like "Run" or "Help me". But it wasn't like that. It was a large, brightly lit room that was surrounded by small areas that could be curtained off. I found it to be a little disorienting, partly due to the brightness, partly due to the reality of the situation becoming more and more inescapable. I've never liked that.

The nurse led me over to a scale for what seemed like the umpteenth time in the last several weeks. I've been weighed and measured more in the last five weeks than I have in the last five years. I get why they would weigh me so much. Weight changes. But why do they keep measuring me? Do they think that something about the procedure is going to affect my height?  I obliged anyway, still trying to get my bearings, still trying to fight off the reality.

After the weigh-in, the nurse then led me over to my little "room". She reviewed and handed me a ream of forms that needed my signature. This included having to sign the standard form that says that if they screw up, it's not their fault. I imagine this form makes them feel a lot better. It didn't do much for me. I signed it anyway. The nurse then gave me a rundown on what was going to happen next: First, I would be undressing and putting on their gown ("and only tie the top one" she kept repeating. I could tell I would be in big trouble if I screwed this up), then they would give me an I.V., shave me, introduce the Doctors, etc, etc. She finished her schpeel and told me to disrobe, reminding me again to only tie it at the top! Then she pulled the curtain "to give me some privacy". This struck me as a little odd since I was only two steps away from being shaved by this very same person. But out she went and I got undressed.

I can kind of see why she was so focused on only tying the top tie. The temptation to tie the others is overwhelming. When I put on this so called gown, I felt like I had just stuck my head through the sail of a boat. My front was well covered, everything else was pretty much flapping in the breeze. I think they do this to ensure that you won't get off the gurney. In my case, it did the trick.

From there, things went pretty much as the nurse had said: I got my I.V. (right into my wrist bone, but I guess that was ok because as the nurse said, the needle is only plastic??), got shaved, which was a real treat, met the Doctors, met some more Doctors, etc. Everything was moving right along. I looked at the clock and it looked like we were ahead of schedule. It wasn't even 1:00 yet.

At about this time, there was some minor commotion across the room. It seems that a patient who was crossed off of the surgery list wasn't supposed to have been crossed off. "Well, what about this patient?" one of them asked. And they all looked over at me. I have no idea what this meant. That's when the nurse injected some drug into the I.V. to "get me to relax".  That was the excuse anyway. Whatever they had given me was turning everything into Silly Putty. People would talk and turn their heads in slow motion and their mouths would stop moving but their voices would continue. They wheeled me down the short hall toward the operating room. I vaguely remember the large lights. I vaguely remember hearing something about having to wait. And then...nothing.

Next thing I knew, I was back where I started from, in the side room. Slowly I became aware of voices fading in. Someone took off my oxygen mask, as they said they would do if they felt they had to wake me up. I remember wondering why they wanted me to wake up when I had just fallen asleep. Then I realized how bad I was hurting and that it must have already happened. Standing in front of me was the surgeon. He was saying something about the hernia being big. I couldn't follow him. Things were still foggy.  For some reason, I felt suspicious that he was who he said he was, even though I've met him before. I studied him and remember thinking that this guy only looked like my doctor. What were they trying to pull?

The doctor went off to inform my next of kin and they had me "rest" for a little bit longer. I got the distinct "here's your hat, what's your hurry" impression from the nurse who stated many times that once I pee, I could go home. When I was finally able to "cough it up" so to speak, I felt like it was the biggest accomplishment I've had in quite some time. I was almost as happy as the nurse. From there, I was plunked in a wheel chair and on my way. They sent me home with prescriptions for pain killers and stool softeners, both of which I've been using regularly. As a matter of fact, I've been popping stool softeners like they were M&M's. I'm not sure which worries me more, that they won't work or that they will. I think the real reason they tell you not to drive has nothing to do with the pain killers.

What's next? Well, I could write about my adventures at home of trying to walk or sleep or do anything without it killing me. I'm sure that would be exciting. Maybe a post about getting in and out of bed. Or trying to walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Maybe some other time. At least it's over and done with.Time to move on.

I don't know why, but it bothers me to be taking time off for something like this. Part of it is, I think, not being able to do whatever I want to do (even thought I don't do anything). Part of it is feeling useless. And part of it is knowing that it could be a lot worse, so I shouldn't be complaining as much as I do. But here I am anyway, on my way to being all better.