October 25, 2004 - Surgery Day Arrives
I spend a few hours at friends' house with my dog and my husband the night before my operation. It takes my mind off the next day, but only fleetingly. I go home, get ready for my hospital stay and go to bed early. I have to be at the hospital at 5:45 AM for my 7:30 AM surgery. The hospital is about 45-60 minutes from my house. That means I have to get up at the crack of dawn, eat no breakfast, shower and dress, then be driven to the hospital while trying to calm my nerves.
I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this.
It’s still dark outside when we arrive, and Hans drops me off just outside the main entrance as he goes off to park the car. I wait with my small duffle bag while a city rat scoots by in the shadows. I hope there’s none of his kind inside. I’m scared enough without having to worry about rodents. Besides the rat and me, there’s nobody around at this hour. Hans finally comes, and we go inside.
The ride in the elevator is quick, and I’m at admitting before I know it. All the paperwork and procedures to get me signed in and into my temp room go smoothly. I’ll be taken from here to the operating room. Hans will wait until he can join me in the ICU, which is where I’ll be after surgery. The nurse does some preliminary blood pressure readings, gives me a pair of lovely stretch stockings to be worn under pressurized leg units to prevent clots from forming during and after surgery, gives me my standard hospital gown and leaves me to wait. It occurs to me that there’s still time to run away, to just go home, but then I know I’ll only have to go through this morning again at some point in my life soon. If I go home now, my back will still be a mess. I’ll still need surgery, and I’ll also be labeled as a sissy, one of the non-brave who ran away. While I’m having this debate in my head, a nurse comes to get me, and I’m almost relieved at no longer having a choice. Hans walks alongside my gurney and the ride to the OR is fast.
My anesthesiologist meets me at the door and immediately begins a patter conversation about my self-donated pint of blood, to keep my mind off the tasks at hand, no doubt. Little does he know I don’t want to talk about donating a pint of blood ever again. A very kind OR nurse starts talking to me, asking me if I’m cold (I am) and getting a blanket for me, which helps. I hear her say something about giving me something soon to help with the pre-surgery jitters, but if the truth be told, the next thing I remember is waking up in Recovery.
I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this.
It’s still dark outside when we arrive, and Hans drops me off just outside the main entrance as he goes off to park the car. I wait with my small duffle bag while a city rat scoots by in the shadows. I hope there’s none of his kind inside. I’m scared enough without having to worry about rodents. Besides the rat and me, there’s nobody around at this hour. Hans finally comes, and we go inside.
The ride in the elevator is quick, and I’m at admitting before I know it. All the paperwork and procedures to get me signed in and into my temp room go smoothly. I’ll be taken from here to the operating room. Hans will wait until he can join me in the ICU, which is where I’ll be after surgery. The nurse does some preliminary blood pressure readings, gives me a pair of lovely stretch stockings to be worn under pressurized leg units to prevent clots from forming during and after surgery, gives me my standard hospital gown and leaves me to wait. It occurs to me that there’s still time to run away, to just go home, but then I know I’ll only have to go through this morning again at some point in my life soon. If I go home now, my back will still be a mess. I’ll still need surgery, and I’ll also be labeled as a sissy, one of the non-brave who ran away. While I’m having this debate in my head, a nurse comes to get me, and I’m almost relieved at no longer having a choice. Hans walks alongside my gurney and the ride to the OR is fast.
My anesthesiologist meets me at the door and immediately begins a patter conversation about my self-donated pint of blood, to keep my mind off the tasks at hand, no doubt. Little does he know I don’t want to talk about donating a pint of blood ever again. A very kind OR nurse starts talking to me, asking me if I’m cold (I am) and getting a blanket for me, which helps. I hear her say something about giving me something soon to help with the pre-surgery jitters, but if the truth be told, the next thing I remember is waking up in Recovery.
posted by Karen | 9:17 PM
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