Surgery

Okay, so I had my umbilical hernia repaired yesterday. I got up at 5:15am (ouch, well, I was looking for an excuse to switch my schedule around anyway), and had to keep telling myself not to eat or drink anything. Cleverly, I did not fill my bedside water glass the night before, so my morning instinct to start with a long drink of water was foiled. Instead, I had a lovely parched feeling going into the operation.

I grabbed the latest New Yorker on my way out. Good thing, too, as I needed something read before and after. The latest issue is pretty good. I particularly liked the "Political Science" article, which is just fuel on the anti-science fire, and "The Art of Testifying," which made me rethink my disdain for the Roberts and Alito hearings. As soon as we let go of the idea that confirmation hearings have anything at all to do with the confirmation process, and see them as a pure opportunity for senators to speak to their constituencies, we are freed from our natural loathing for doublespeak, stonewalling, and hypocrisy. And, as a nice touch, the issue contains on-point letters rebutting Gladwell's glib deconstruction of pit-bull prohibitions, and Anthony Lane takes a side-swipe at modern confessional writing.

So they told me to get there by 6am, which I figured meant an hour or more of nothing. I walked the twenty blocks or so to the California Pacific Medical Center from my apartment. In these early morning hours you can just see the dawn coming in the east, the sky is lightening, there are a couple of people out for their runs or walking their dogs. At this hour in the semi-darkness, people greet each other when they pass, which is not so common under the revealing light of day.

At Cal Pacific, the only open door at this hour is through the Emergency Entrance. Up to the third floor and the OutPatient Check-in, where I am issued a fashionable gown, sock booties, and shown into my cold linoleum-floored cell where I will wait for an hour or so while dawn comes up outside. From the window I can see the dome of the nearby Temple Emanu-El, and the hills leading up to the Ignatian Chapel. I call my mother. I read the New Yorker.

Then things start moving. I am visited by a series of nurses. I am asked the same questions by each: what am I here for, do I have any allergies, etc. My blood pressure is taken: 120/71, perfect. My pulse rate is low, as usual: 40-45. (And on the subject of basic health stats, I recently got back a cholesterol check: 167 (great), hdl 55 (good), ldl 103 (fine). I gather these evaluative phrases are semi-technical.)

The IV is brought in and my connection to the machine is made. I am now a cyborg entity, my blood and the machine's saline and antibiotics and drugs mixing through this extension of my circulatory system. Nurse Erina (?) does this, while I watch. I talk to her about singing. She says she would like to sing but does not; she says she's been invited to be in her church choir.

There is a slight delay, then I meet the anesthesiologist, and we have an abbreviated conversation. No intubation, please. We will do the general with a laryngal mask. He is affable but brusque, in a manner I associate with anesthesiologists.

Tom introduces himself on the way to the OR; I guess he is a resident or intern or something. (I wonder whether he will be the one to actually do the work?) We pass Dr Hiler in the hall, surrounded by other doctors, all in their scrubs. We come into the room, filled with machines, devices, and three or four people, all in scrubs and masks and gloves. In the center is the "table", under a spreading borg-like configuration of lights and machines. My world narrows to the table itself, and I see that the modern operating table is really more like a cross, and getting ready for your operation is akin to a crucifixion and a massage at the same time. "Are you comfortable? Are you warm?" Nice pillows are put under my legs. My head is cradled into a shaped pillow. I look up at the aqua-tiled ceiling as my arms are stretched upon the rack, tied down. The anesthesiologist is above my head; from my spread-eagled, prone position I must look up to him as Jesus must look up to God.

Dr Hiler comes in. I like him, but again, our conversation is brief and to the point. He circles the work areas on my body with a marker right there, which I appreciate, as it gives me confidence that we are going to do what we planned. He says there are some international observers here; they are sharing repair techniques and he is going to show them how it's done. These must be all the other people in scrubs that we passed. They aren't in the room yet; they will probably enter when I am out. I am happy to be the display model.

I feel a slight burning in my IV arm. The anesthesiologist gave me a heads up about this before, and now he says he's turned the tap on. I smile and say bye bye to everyone in the room. He laughs and says not quite yet, and puts an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. Oxygen, he says, you will like this. I breathe. It is slightly cold. I think, is this what it is like when you wear the oxygen masks in an airplane?

* * *

I wake up, and am immediately in a good mood. The clock on the wall says 9am. I must have been out for about an hour or so. I am sleepy and langorous. I have good-natured conversations with the nurses. I tell them that this must be the best job in the world; my nurse says she loves it. Time drifts by. My alarm keeps going off because my pulse rate drops down to 34-35. With a resting of 40-45 I don't have that much leeway I guess. It's amazing that when I'm working out intensely my rate will by three-four times what it is when I'm resting.

The nurse gives me a tiny shot of something through the IV to perk up my pulse rate, but I don't think it has much of an impact. I'm loving this new science of general anesthesia. What happened to the nausea we've come to expect? No complaints.

About 10am or so they wheel me out of recovery and into a separate bay, where I get crackers and apple juice. Apple juice has never tasted so good. I hang out there for a bit, reading my New Yorker again. They make me get out of my comfortable bed and into the chair. There's concern that maybe I am dizzy? But no - I do feel slightly disoriented. That feeling of not being quite as sharp as usual. I always think of the scene in "A Beautiful Mind," when Nash complains that he doesn't want to take the drugs because then he can't do the math. When I was on Vicodin after my shouldern surgery, I felt the same way. I couldn't string the thoughts together. It's an awful feeling.

I've had friends talk about how great Vicodin is but I hated it. It dulled my consciousness and never seemed strong enough for the bone-pain, which was truly the most extreme physical pain experience of my life. It would cut through the Vicodin like it wasn't even there. That was a wretched experience.

Nothing like that this time. I have a prescription for Vicodin but so far so good (knocking on wood). Thank god this wasn't a bone-related procedure. The nurse warned me that there may also be a topical that would be wearing off, but if there was I couldn't tell. I got dressed and then they wheeled me down to the lobby. Clearly a hospital protocol, because I was immediately going to walk anyway, so why not just walk down to the lobby?

My cousin Sarah was there to pick me up, with Harriet and Walter in tow. She supplied me with a balloon, soup, graham crackers, and ginger ale. It's great to have family in the city. Harriet is still singing the music from Pirates of Penzance eight times a day, and we sang some in the car on the way home.

Later that day Ben came over with some beers (sadly not for 24 hours) and peanuts (yum), and Lawrence joined us after work. Jennifer brought me supplies in the evening and we caught up. Thus I am continuing to fulfill my New Year's resolution to entertain! Ben assures me that even haphazard entertaining counts.

Today is a gorgeous day. I think if I take it easy I can legitimately go outside. I'm sure this is pushing it but what the hell. I really can't just sit inside. Anja is singing at 2pm with Pocket Opera at the Legion of Honor, and I'd like to try my new camera out on some coastline shots.

Comments

[Chuck Currie]

Glad to hear you're doing well. Katherine and Frances would like their cousin Charles to come up and visit Portland sometime soon.