It begins at 4:30 on surgery day. We get up early every day, but I have NEVER had surgery so I could not sleep. The whole morning has been planned around when I must stop drinking coffee (no cream). My last drop must happen before 7:30 so I have plenty of time. Even on surgery day, I am thinking of my coffee. How wild is this? It turns out not so much. A few days prior, I was listening to Atul Gawande, a famous surgeon/writer and he was helping someone discuss their end of life plans. One guy told him, “I wanna watch sports on tv and eat chocolate ice cream every day. If I can’t do that, it’s time to say good-bye.” Turns out, this dude has it. We get to have quality of life. What does that mean? To me, it’s a warm favorite mug of good coffee with cream, my cats, my love, a good sunrise. When I can’t have those things, it’s time. But it’s not time, today, for me, because this is not a thing. It is a thing, but it’s nothing big.
But it begins when Bob says, “It’s time to go” I am not sure where the time went, but soon we are bundled up and hurtling through the changing light making “it’s so cold” noises. Things like, “brrr” and me making my coat crinkle as I wiggle around to get warm and him saying,”oof” as he puts on his gloves. Our breath is visible in puffy clouds as we will ourselves to adjust faster. The magic “click” of the seat warmer buttons can’t be hit fast enough. We chuckle because “It’s Minnesota!” It was warm and then the temp bottomed out to another below zero wake-up call and this is not a new thing. We laugh at ourselves because even knowing isn’t enough for the experience.
It begins as I see city lights. Rochester is not a big city, but because of all the Mayo buildings it does have a bit of a cityscape. There is traffic heading into town, always. I am one in the line of ants going to their appointment. We both get a bit nervous for underestimating the traffic line. We are on time people. As we snake our way up the parking ramp the clock ticks closer to our expected arrival time. It’s ok. I breathe. Nothing bad is coming from being a few minutes late. I wonder where time anxiety comes from? Everyone in my immediate family has it. Not Ben as much. He can under and overestimate time in terms of planning how long it takes to do assignments or as far as managing a day, but as far as going places, he likes to be on time. I momentarily think, “He goes to school on time every day. I am so lucky.” This is a dumb thought to have right now, but it sets the tone for the day as I have little control over my thoughts or the time.
It begins when we step up to the check in right on time. This does not set the tone for the day. After jumping over all the entrance hurdles of checking in here and there, the day falls wildly apart in terms of time.
But it really begins when the nurse hands me a gown. It is dusty purple and has a magic hole in which I can place a tube that will shoot warm or cool air into it. At first I am giddy as only a perimenopausal woman with fluctuating temperature needs can be. But I am in the gown for 16 hours and the coating on the inside (in order to allow for this amazing air) makes my skin damp and sticky. It’s a texture thing and I will fidget until the anesthesia knocks me out. The fidgeting takes me away from myself. I can’t or won’t lock in because I feel so uncomfortable. I get grumpy with all the waiting. After the initial conversations with the nurse who walks me through the day, there is a hopeful hour. We are waiting as I really look around. I have been put in a hospital room. The floor is organized in a circle and the rooms are on the perimeter of the circle. All around me, people are waiting for surgeries. I was imagining a clinic room because this incision is small. But it’s a real hospital floor and this freaks me out. It begins when I tear up and Bob takes my hand. He will take my hand throughout the day. He has given up an entire day to be here with me and while yes, of course, it is a long long day. As he takes my hand he predicts I will not be a good patient and he is right. This is so far out of my experience that I become a little unbound. I have zero control over anything here. I try to read, we blast through Wordle in 7 minutes together and I don’t want to zone out on my phone.
It begins in hour three of waiting. I am relegated to doing what I always do and look around. I am gobsmacked at the OR staff who have trouble wheeling patients into rooms. I think, “They do this all day! How has someone not noticed the poor design of the room? Make wider doors or smaller gurneys. Come on!” This is but one micro observation that makes me a challenging person and employee. I see things and have questions for which no one ever wants to answer. Then I am overwhelmed by the true nature of what it means to be a nurse. Sure, they know medical stuff but I feel like they are solely here for my comfort. I cannot take this in without getting angry. Nurses have been shit on so much during this pandemic and all they do is ask what we need, if we are comfortable, can they get me anything? Bob and I grouse about this a bit, but he is careful as he doesn’t want me to get into the weeds. At one point he says, “I am glad they already took your blood pressure” and gives me one of his winks. “Hon, you are not running the hospital today.” This gets a barking laugh out of me, and I slow my racing heart by breathing deeply and just give up to the waiting and close my eyes.
It begins when a touch on my hand that is not Bob’s says, “It’s time.” I don’t say, “It’s been time for three hours!” I say nothing and smile weakly. I can’t fake being a good sport. I have said who I am and my birthdate and what procedure I am having four times already and there are three more opportunities ahead of me. The first time they ask me what meds I take, and they act surprised at my list of 1, I feel a bit of pride. The fourth time, I don't even notice if they care. I feel a bit of pride for deciding not to mess with them by purposely screwing up. They are doing their jobs and I want the right surgery. I am wheeled to an elevator and then to a place that looks far more ominous- very much like a tv ER and I am parked in a new place to wait. I now have two wristlets on my right hand-one that says SEED and one with a QR code. Some tiny young woman who must be a teenager and is in the learning stages is asking my name and birthdate and I (cannotcannotdon’tdoitLisa) tell her my name. Someone new is marking my breast so now I have two surgical seeds, a blazing purple Sharpie tattoo that may as well be an arrow that says, “CUT HERE!” and these wristlets. I think that even if my surgeon is high, his chances of success are above average. I think maybe Bob could do it. He is so good with pumpkin carving, but I can’t ask him as they left him upstairs.
It begins when they ask me to scoot from the gurney to a tiny operating table that is no thicker than a piece of plywood. The OR nurses are friendly. They encourage me to look around. I see a spotless bright white room and stainless steel everything else. People are masked and have on all the gear and it’s wild and I feel like I am in a sci fi movie. They pepper me with the SAME questions and then ask if I have questions. I say, “This looks like a lot of hullabaloo for a three inch incision.” They laugh and pat my arm and say they think I will be happy they follow protocols. Once it’s decided I don’t need to hear anything else, they ask for my hearing aids and I feel tubes being attached and a mask being taken off and a new one put on and I am out.
It begins when they determine I can go back to my room. I immediately start to cry when I see Bob who takes my hand and kisses me through the mask. It begins when I know relief that he has waited and the truth is he will never not wait. I am loopy and weepy and so happy he’s here and we can begin again now that this is over.
It begins, the recovery, as soon as I say I want to leave. Had they wheeled me directly from OR to the car, I would have been much happier. But like a good girl, I pee and eat two saltines and prove I can stand and finally it begins that we can end this day. But I need a steady hand in my rush. Bob looks at me. I am giddy to take off the gown and dress by putting my sweatshirt over the tube top. It’s clear I need that wheelchair so Bob is the one to push me downstairs because I refused to have an escort. He parks me by the door and tells me in his stern doctor tone not to take off. He had shared earlier that if I ever end up on a dementia ward, I will be a runner and this is true. Because I am not demented (yet) I decide to listen despite my restlessness as he trots off to get the car. It is still cold but we are quiet. There is no noise as he gets me situated. It begins as we head out of town in the darkness, the long day drifting away. What just happened? It will take time, I think, to figure that all out but I don’t need to know just yet. I let myself feel comfort in the cold car, Bob’s gloved hand reaching out now and then to check on me without words. It begins as I drift off to sleep. My rest begins.
❤️ beautiful
ReplyDelete