It's Really Minor Surgery
Wed., May 6, 12:19 PM
I used to call myself a morning person, but this was ridiculous! Even at the worst, when I got up early in order to accomplish what I needed before four other people would need the bathroom, my wake-up was five-thirty. Tuesday morning I needed an alarm clock to get up at four-thirty in the middle of the night so we could get to the hospital by six. And this without coffee!
Please understand, when I say a morning person, by no means am I describing one of those people who cheerily jumps out of bed and starts the day. What I mean is that, once I drag myself up and get started, morning is when I accomplish the most. That has been true ever since I got past my early school years. Maybe I will even tell you about it — some other time.
In any case, we arrived at the hospital in plenty of time, before valet service was available, before the coffee shop was open. (I was not allowed to eat, of course, but U.D. really deserved something for driving twenty-odd miles in the dark on an empty stomach!) We were greeted by real morning people, who got me set up with a minimum of waiting.
I talked to a cheerful pre-op nurse who went over the basics again and got me hospital clothing. I also met a cheerful O.R. nurse and a really nice anesthetist before Dr. R. popped in to reassure me before getting into his scrubs. Soon I was led to the procedure room, where U.D. was assigned a beeper, and I went inside. The nurses took away my robe, but they covered me with heated blankets and put pillows under my knees because of my back. They started an I.V. in my right arm; a bright pink bracelet marks my left arm as not to be squeezed. The last thing I remember saying was “what are you doing to my left arm?” (It wasn’t the arm, just the oxygen monitor on my finger.)
I awakened to a sore throat and uncomfortable eyes. The cold oxygen was blowing on my face, though I was unaware of it until it touched my eyeballs. Someone took away the oxygen. I knew my throat hurt because they had inserted a breathing tube, and it wouldn’t last. A nurse sat me up and brought me some ice chips. That helped.
Soon they were offering me something to drink — diet Coke. That was better than they knew; sipping Coke is what I would do to relieve nausea. Soon I was offered an English muffin. I was beginning to feel like a person. It bears repeating, often: recovery room nurses are among the best people on earth.
By that time U.D. had found her way to the recovery area, happy to see that I had survived the ordeal — without throwing up. I sat up awhile, I walked a little — talked a lot — walked some more, and I had passed the test; I could get dressed. U.D. helped — I had some issues with buttons. The nurse went over the follow-up care with us. Then U.D. went to validate the parking (nice!) and get the car while an aide got me into a wheelchair and brought me to the lobby.
We were home before noon. All of this detail is to point out how much took place in less than six hours. Aside from a little residual fatigue, I feel fine. My nose is a little stuffy, but it’s not bleeding. And I woke up at five-thirty this morning, without an alarm clock.
