OK
I had it and I’m alive. If you didn’t
read my post from the other day, here. I had to be at the hospital at the ungodly
hour of 6:15 AM this morning. That’s
even earlier than when I start work. I
went through the admission process. Co-pays
have gotten ridiculous. The cheaper they
make health care, the more expensive it is.
I tried to make a joke but it went flat.
The admissions nurse asked if I was working; I said not at the moment,
meaning not that very second. I corrected
it after she didn’t smile.
After
some measuring of vitals, I was told to take off all my clothes and put on
two hospital gowns, one open to the back, the other open to the front. The surgeon came in and talked as if he
remembered me. I guess he did. He took out a marker, opened my gowns, and
signed the left lower abdomen where the hernia repair was needed. Perhaps it was my nerves, but I had gas. I told the nurse earlier and the doctor now
and neither seemed to think it was of concern.
My fear was that under sedation I would pass a bowel movement and make a
mess of the situation. I was walked over
to the operating room where the surgical team were all looking at me above
their surgical masks as I walked into the room. It felt like I was in an episode of Dr. Kildare, I was asked to lay down on the table, and someone removed the gown
opened to the front. There’s no dignity
in being a patient.
Someone
asked who I was and what I was here for.
I told them. I had to splay my
arms outward as if I were being crucified, and my thoughts jumped immediately
to Jesus. The head nurse tried to strap
some contraption across my waist. “So
you don’t fall off,” She said. The
anesthesiologist said he was plugging the anesthesia into my catheter on my
left forearm. Someone was doing
something to my right arm as well, and asked politely, I assume strapping it
down. My arms were in some sort of crossbar. It really felt like I was being
crucified. My last thoughts were wondering
on whether the Roman soldiers were this polite to Jesus as they nailed him to
the cross. I know depictions show a brutality, but we don’t really know, now do
we? Perhaps they were polite.
Next
thing I know I was in the recovery bay, the surgery finished, and it was now
about an hour later. I guess I did not
pass a bowel movement. My vitals checked
out. They gave me a cup of coffee and a
cookie, and they called my wife, and it seemed within minutes I was being
wheeled out to my car. I think I was
home before 10:30.
I’ve
been resting and reading—this is a great time to catch up on a lot of reading—all
day. The doctor’s autograph is still on my
belly. Perhaps he thinks it’s a
masterpiece. Pain has gotten
progressively worse. I’m trying to avoid
taking the Tramadol; too many people get addicted to these pain killers. I’ve been putting an ice pack on it (it’s swollen)
and taking ibuprofen. It’s very
difficult getting out of bed, and it really hurts when I cough. I haven’t had a bowel movement yet, but I
suspect that’s going to really hurt too.
I may take a Tramadol before going to bed so I could sleep.
Through
it all I couldn’t help but remember the beginning of T.S. Eliot’s great poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
LET us go then, you and
I,
When the evening is
spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized
upon a table;
Let us go, through
certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in
one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants
with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like
a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an
overwhelming question…. 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is
it?”
Let us go and make our
visit.
Yes,
today I was a patient etherized upon a table.
Thank you for your prayers.
Hopefully it will all be worth it.
