My chest tubes were removed, and, as a nurse named Ely had assured me, my back didn’t hurt anymore. One immediate consequence of my pain-free state were my thrice-daily prowls down the hospital corridors, strolls which began as convalescent shuffles but progressively increased in vigor and extendedness. No other patients seemed to be out there. The “walking track” was apparently all mine.
The first thing I noticed were the hospital’s formidable wall decorations – large, framed prints of classic paintings by the world’s most famous artists – Picasso, Monet, Lautrec, as well as current artists I never heard of, but they had to be big, or they wouldn’t be up there with the other guys. Had these paintings been the originals, I’d be touring the finest art museum on the planet. Fortunately, the hospital knew its priorities and invested its real money in medical equipment. Prints or no, the pictures were soul nourishing. Much better than a wall plastered with x-rays or MRI results.
During my hallway walks, I also noticed other things. Such as the large poster announcing:
“06 Days – No Falls.”
I immediately felt proud. My hospital had a six-day record of nobody falling. But I also felt the heavy weight of responsibility. I was from then on determined to remain upright, for myself, but more importantly, or myself, but for my team, not wanting it never be said, “We were at ‘06’, but we dropped back to ‘00’, when Earl took a tumble.”
TRUE TO FORM
Inexplicably, at least to me, was the fact that while the rooms were kept at normal temperature, the corridors were freezing. I was glad I had brought along my bathrobe; otherwise I would very likely have contracted pneumonia during one of my health-restoring walks.
On one walk, I noticed an attractive, female hospital worker pushing a gurney, wearing a scarf wrapped around her head. I thought that was extreme and I unsolicitedly said so:
“It’s not that cold,” I “cleverly” remarked.
The woman looked at me strangely.
“What?”
And then she moved on.
After which, it came to me. The female hospital worker wasn’t cold. She was Muslim.
It was instructive to know that Open-heart Surgery hadn’t robbed me of my ability to embarrass myself in front of strangers.
THE SCARY ROOM
At the hallway’s elbow, where it perpendiculared from one corridor to another, I noticed this room with a sign beside the door that read, “Advanced Heart Failure.” In contrast to the wall art, this sign was an unquestionable “downer.” I considered how a patient must feel, reading that sign as they were ushered into that room?
“Advanced Heart Failure. That can’t be good.”
Couldn’t the hospital come up with a more encouraging room identifier? How ‘bout no sign at all? The room already had a number; the doctors could easily find it. I just couldn’t understand who was the sign was for? Certainly not the entering patients.
“Do you think reminding me I have “Advanced Heart Failure” is really going to improve my outlook?”
I’m not a doctor, but I can’t believe that sign’s doing anybody any good.
HALLOWE’EN HI-JINKS
My last walk before leaving the hospital took place on October 31st. Among the “necessities” collected to take to the hospital, Anna had included a cardboard Indian headdress, boasting a “chief-sized” array of colored feathers. On that Hallowe’en morning, I proudly donned my ersatz war bonnet and went out for my walk.
What I quickly noticed was that the degree of enthusiasm for my costume varied in inverse proportion to the staff member’s status in the hospital’s hierarchy. The lower they were on the Totem Pole (sorry about that), the more they enjoyed it. Not one doctor cracked a smile. (“This is a hospital!” their reactions seemed to say. “We’re here to save lives, and make money!”) On the other hand, the orderlies ate it up.
“A chief on Hallowe’en! Oh, man!”
I feared for those orderlies. They’d never move up if they refused to take my silliness seriously.
THE FINAL INDIGNITY
In an institution where you’re required to wear gowns that are open in the back, and no underwear, the concept of “dignity” is pretty much out the window. But, come on. There are limits.
It’s noontime, Hallowe’en Day. I’ve been told my release from the hospital was imminent. It was is now just a matter of signing some paperwork and getting a list of prescribed medicines we needed to pick up at our pharmacy. I feel beansily excited. I am already out of my hospital gown, dressed my “street clothes”, perched impatiently on the side of my bed, waiting to be sprung.
I am confident nothing can impede my liberation. I had passed what I’d been told was the determining test: Demonstrating adequate breatheability, I had successfully suspended the three balls in the air ten times in a row. It looked like clear sailing to the exit.
Not so fast.
The doctor’s assistant arrives with my paperwork, and one, highly personal, question.
“Did you poop yet?”
Incapable of doing otherwise, I tell the truth.
“I did not.”
The doctor’s assistant then tells me the truth:
“You can’t leave until you poop.”
This is the reason I hate hospitals, and all other institutions. They make the rules. I have absolutely no control. The hospital alone holds the key to my freedom. And the key is…
I have to poop.
And then tell them, or, who knows, show them, that I did.
And with that go my last remnants of dignity.
I try to handle the problem “in house.” Take care of the situation myself. But between the anesthetic for the surgery and my aggressive pain-killing regimen…
There was nobody home.
You know how in westerns, the bad guys cut the telegraph wires, so the messages can’t get through? It felt something like that.
Woe was me. I was as doomed as doomed could be. Send my mail to the hospital. I was moving in forever!
During the next forty-five minutes, I try everything that’s reputed to help. Chocolate. Coffee. Milk of Magnesia. Heated prune juice. And a procedure I will not go into, administered by a (nurse) man named Jesse whom I had only recently met.
Finally…(Phew!)
Mission accompli.
I was officially released from the hospital.
I was wheel-chaired to the parking lot.
I got in the car.
And we headed for home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, and most importantly, Dr. M., who was there for me every step of the way. Followed closely by Rachel and Anna, both towers of strength, encouragement, entertainment and support.
The surgeon? Low on “people skills”, but exemplary in the skills that ultimately mattered.
The hospital and its hardworking staff? Thank you.
Family, friends and blog readers who offered good wishes and prayers? They all helped make me feel stronger facing the challenge, and less alone.
Julian, whoever you are. Thank you for fixing my mess-ups on “The Best of Earl.” The assistance of strangers. Quite a concept.
I don’t know what happened. I got sick, I got first class medical help, and now, I’m on the mend. Throughout the experience, there was just one moment of, “Why me?” And as the words flashed into my consciousness, I found myself smiling, because I knew the answer.
“Why not me?”
I plan to write two more illness-related posts. After that, I’ll return my focus to what really matters.
Writing about half-hour comedy.
Thank you all for your patience, and for sticking around. Hopefully, I’ll be here for a while.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
"Story of a Surgery - Part Four"
My hospital room – a private one – was surprisingly small. A few months earlier, we had visited a friend who’d had major back surgery at the same hospital, and his hospital room was huge. I don't get it. That guy couldn’t even walk!
Not only that, but on our last day, we were informed that every hospital room was supposed to include two chairs. My room only had one.
Class up, Earl-o. Millions of people have no health care whatsoever. And you’re whining about the size of your room and a shortage of chairs?
You’re right, Italics Man.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
I’m sorry. I won’t complain anymore.
Wait, one more thing.
They always brought the meals late. One day, my lunch wasn’t delivered till almost two. Then, as I was waiting for my butternut squash soup to cool, an orderly arrived to take me to another part of the hospital for x-rays. When I was returned to my room, I discovered – Are you ahead of me here? –
My lunch had been taken away!
Okay. Now I’m done complaining.
All right, not quite. Although I felt miraculously wonderful for a guy who’d recently had robots poking around his chest cavity, there was one exception to my total wellbeing. As a result of the procedure, my back (just west of my right shoulder blade) was giving me a lot of trouble. I had like a really crampy knot there that wouldn’t go away. I was told I’d immediately feel better once my chest tubes were removed, but it was unclear exactly when that would be. In the meantime
Ow!
And “Double ‘Ow!’” when I coughed, sneezed or moved.
As I lay there, wincing in mid-to-low-upper-range-level discomfort, I was hardly bereft of hospital-dispatched companionship. A specialist came by from Occupational Therapy. A specialist dropped in from Physical Therapy. A Nutritional Therapist showed up, armed with an Internet critique of my dietary supplements. I even got a visit from “Buddy”, a volunteer dog, who, with his owner, went room-to-room and, on request, would climb onto your bed sit in your lap. (Just “Buddy”, not the owner.) I enjoyed “Buddy’s” visit, though I’m a little iffy on the hygienic implications.
The one specialist that didn’t visit?
A Massage Therapist.
The only one I wanted. The only one they didn’t provide.
Something about massages messing with your blood pressure. My blood pressure comfortably low, I would gladly have risked a few points for a relaxing massage. Anything that would get my back to unspasm and be my friend. It was really bothering me.
And then, they appeared.
Three attractive, young women, materializing out of nowhere like in Monty Python’s, “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.” I’d have written them off as byproducts of over-medication, but, fortunately, Anna was there with me, and she saw them too.
They called themselves “The Pain Team.” They actually did. Just like The Lone Ranger, “The Pain Team” had gotten wind of my situation and ridden to the rescue. Except instead of a guy with a mask and an Indian companion, it was two Latinas and an Asian woman wearing lab coats.
The “Team” listened to my complaints, and proposed a range of solutions. Higher dosages of my pain medication. Different pain medication. Pain medicine combinations, delivered in both pill form and I.V. drip. They also offered acupuncture, though the suggestion was offered rather tentatively. In my case, this was entirely unnecessary. When it comes to alleviating pain, I am blessedly free of cultural prejudice.
When I asked the team members if they were doctors, they informed me that they were not, mentioning instead another medical designation likely to swell their families’ bosoms with marginally less pride. Their answer triggered some concern. Not because they weren’t doctors, but because I was afraid the real doctors wouldn’t listen to them.
“Silly women, thinking they can alleviate this man’s pain. Why…(derisively chuckling, Steve Martin-style)… they’re not even doctors!”
It turned out, my concerns were – as they invariably are – misguided.
The doctors totally listened. My pain regimen was adjusted, and my ouchy back immediately improved. Before my surgery, I had thought of this line: “I’ll know I’m receiving enough pain medicine when the guy in the bed beside me is smiling.” Turns out, I had a single room. But after my pain regimen had been upgraded, the walls seemed happy.
I liked my pain medicine. And I loved “The Pain Team!”
There is one negative to increasing your pain medication. Constipation. It’s a trade-off. You feel an improvement in your pain situation, but you pay the price in the back end. So to speak.
I guess I’m still not a hundred per cent. At full strength, I would never have allowed myself to go out on that.
Not only that, but on our last day, we were informed that every hospital room was supposed to include two chairs. My room only had one.
Class up, Earl-o. Millions of people have no health care whatsoever. And you’re whining about the size of your room and a shortage of chairs?
You’re right, Italics Man.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
I’m sorry. I won’t complain anymore.
Wait, one more thing.
They always brought the meals late. One day, my lunch wasn’t delivered till almost two. Then, as I was waiting for my butternut squash soup to cool, an orderly arrived to take me to another part of the hospital for x-rays. When I was returned to my room, I discovered – Are you ahead of me here? –
My lunch had been taken away!
Okay. Now I’m done complaining.
All right, not quite. Although I felt miraculously wonderful for a guy who’d recently had robots poking around his chest cavity, there was one exception to my total wellbeing. As a result of the procedure, my back (just west of my right shoulder blade) was giving me a lot of trouble. I had like a really crampy knot there that wouldn’t go away. I was told I’d immediately feel better once my chest tubes were removed, but it was unclear exactly when that would be. In the meantime
Ow!
And “Double ‘Ow!’” when I coughed, sneezed or moved.
As I lay there, wincing in mid-to-low-upper-range-level discomfort, I was hardly bereft of hospital-dispatched companionship. A specialist came by from Occupational Therapy. A specialist dropped in from Physical Therapy. A Nutritional Therapist showed up, armed with an Internet critique of my dietary supplements. I even got a visit from “Buddy”, a volunteer dog, who, with his owner, went room-to-room and, on request, would climb onto your bed sit in your lap. (Just “Buddy”, not the owner.) I enjoyed “Buddy’s” visit, though I’m a little iffy on the hygienic implications.
The one specialist that didn’t visit?
A Massage Therapist.
The only one I wanted. The only one they didn’t provide.
Something about massages messing with your blood pressure. My blood pressure comfortably low, I would gladly have risked a few points for a relaxing massage. Anything that would get my back to unspasm and be my friend. It was really bothering me.
And then, they appeared.
Three attractive, young women, materializing out of nowhere like in Monty Python’s, “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.” I’d have written them off as byproducts of over-medication, but, fortunately, Anna was there with me, and she saw them too.
They called themselves “The Pain Team.” They actually did. Just like The Lone Ranger, “The Pain Team” had gotten wind of my situation and ridden to the rescue. Except instead of a guy with a mask and an Indian companion, it was two Latinas and an Asian woman wearing lab coats.
The “Team” listened to my complaints, and proposed a range of solutions. Higher dosages of my pain medication. Different pain medication. Pain medicine combinations, delivered in both pill form and I.V. drip. They also offered acupuncture, though the suggestion was offered rather tentatively. In my case, this was entirely unnecessary. When it comes to alleviating pain, I am blessedly free of cultural prejudice.
When I asked the team members if they were doctors, they informed me that they were not, mentioning instead another medical designation likely to swell their families’ bosoms with marginally less pride. Their answer triggered some concern. Not because they weren’t doctors, but because I was afraid the real doctors wouldn’t listen to them.
“Silly women, thinking they can alleviate this man’s pain. Why…(derisively chuckling, Steve Martin-style)… they’re not even doctors!”
It turned out, my concerns were – as they invariably are – misguided.
The doctors totally listened. My pain regimen was adjusted, and my ouchy back immediately improved. Before my surgery, I had thought of this line: “I’ll know I’m receiving enough pain medicine when the guy in the bed beside me is smiling.” Turns out, I had a single room. But after my pain regimen had been upgraded, the walls seemed happy.
I liked my pain medicine. And I loved “The Pain Team!”
There is one negative to increasing your pain medication. Constipation. It’s a trade-off. You feel an improvement in your pain situation, but you pay the price in the back end. So to speak.
I guess I’m still not a hundred per cent. At full strength, I would never have allowed myself to go out on that.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
"Story of a Surgery - Part Three"
Dr. M sat in the Waiting Area, accompanied by (daughters) Rachel and Anna, and Anna’s b.f., Colby, who generously took off work to participate in the vigil. I was told that the Operating Room nurse emerged every hour, bringing updates on the procedure. “He’s doing fine.” “It’s going smoothly.” “He’s attached to the heart-lung machine.” (Yikes!) Then, at a quarter to twelve – forty-five minutes before we’d been told the surgery would be over – the surgeon himself came out and announced, “Everything's shipshape; all hands doing well.” Though not as nautically.
I spent time in the “Post-Op Room” with a lot of tubes sticking out of me, among them a “Breathing Tube.” I’d been worried about the “Breathing Tube.” I get gaggy when there’s stuff down my throat, even if it’s, like, a dinner roll. But I apparently did okay, and they soon took the tube out, after which I politely rasped, “Thank you.” (I probably didn’t, but I like to think I’m polite even when semi-comatose.)
My next stop was the “Intensive Care Unit”. When I woke up there, Dr. M and Rachel were sitting nearby. They looked happy and relieved. Or, more honestly, I think they looked happy and relieved. I don’t really know how they looked, because, before the surgery, I had relinquished my glasses, so I couldn’t actually “see” anything, which is how I wanted it, because if I could see things, I was sure I’d be concerned – read: “Ahhhhhhgh!!!” – at the sight of the tubing and I.V.’s sticking out of my body. I once touched a cactus, and afterwards, there were all these spiny things sticking out of my finger. I thought it would be like that. A human porcupine.
Apparently, one of the first things I asked after regaining consciousness was if, while performing my heart surgery, they had also straightened my (wandering) left eye. I was informed they had not, to which I was told I replied, “Fuck!” Rachel, who’s been around me for over thirty years, confessed that, during all those years, this was the first time she had ever heard me utter that word. Of course, I was kidding about the eye straightening thing. On the other hand, you know…I’m already asleep, why not give it a shot?
My first “Intensive Care” nurse (nurses switch off every twelve hours) was named Jackie. Jackie was from the Philippines. Turns out the majority of the nursing staff was from the Philippines. If, for some reason, the immigration from that country had been cut off, my hospital would have found itself so short staffed, the patients would have been relegated to treating each other.
“I’m putting in your I.V.”
“Do you know how?”
“Sort of. I watched another patient put in mine.”
With Jackie came my first test. I’m always anxious about tests, whether in school, at work, or in hospitals, especially tests you can’t prepare for. This test related to efforts to reactivate my surgery-deflated lungs. It required me, after exhaling all the way, to inhale as powerfully as I could into a tube on this toy-like plastic device, which, if inhaled into successfully, would cause three plastic balls, colored different shades of blue, to ascend up three paralleling columns. All the way to the top.
I had learned, after reading the hospital’s orientational Heart 2 Heart brochure, that, unless you could exhale all three balls to the top ten times in a row, you were not permitted to leave the hospital.
My first attempt? One ball. Half way up. I thought I heard the plastic device scoff,
“This dude’s never going home.”
Aside from a test that could change my permanent address to “Hospital”, the other worrisome issue involved sleeping. They’re doing stuff to you round the clock in hospitals, especially in “Intensive Care.” To them, the important concern is not your getting a good night’s sleep – that’s your concern – their primary focus is on keeping you from becoming dead. Their signal that you’re okay is your complaining, “Leave me alone; I’m trying to sleep.” Dead people don’t do that. They just lie there.
The morning after my surgery, the surgeon came by and removed a lot of my tubing, the exception being the tubes in my chest, which was unfortunate, because those were the ones that were giving me the most trouble. Apparently, one of the downsides of robotic surgery is that these, apparently necessary, chest tubes irritate some nearby nerves, causing your back to ache after the surgery – at a spot just inside your right shoulder blade. It’s like a discomfort-inducing knotty cramp that won’t go away. (I’ll try to go easy on the pain description. That spot in my back tightens up just by my writing about it.)
After the tube removal, I was released from “Intensive Care” and wheel-chaired to a regular “Recovery Room.” Before I was released, however, Mark (who had replaced Jackie) delivered two “Look at my face; I am very serious” instructions:
“When you get out of bed, sit on the side of it for a full minute, or you’ll get dizzy when you stand up. And, for six weeks, you are absolutely forbidden to bend down and pick up anything off the floor.”
The “side of the bed” thing was blah. I did that before I was sick. It’s natural. You get to a certain age, and when you get out of bed in the morning, you drop your feet to the floor, and you just sit there. I thought this was a personal negativity thing. “Do I really want to start another day?” But apparently it’s something real.
On the other hand, “No picking stuff off the floor?” You can’t tell me something like that. I’m Laverne and Shirley. Read me any rule, I’ll break it.
Making things worse, I happen to be a congenital “dropper.” Things fall out of my mouth, they fall out of my hands, they fall out of my pockets, and where else can they go but the floor? If I left everything I dropped in an hour just lying around, my house would look like a pigsty.
Fortunately, I have agile toes. Especially my Big Toe and The Toe Right Next To It. I am a-mazing with my toes. I can snatch up a toothpick with those babies. Sorry, deniers of evolution. There is definitely some “monkey” in me.
On the day I changed rooms, I remember gingerly lowering myself to the floor, and taking the first steps since my surgery towards the wheelchair, that would carry me to a location of diminished intensive care.
It felt pretty miraculous. I was just one day from “Open Heart Surgery” (I hate the term “Open Heart”; it sounds so Mayan.) And I was already walking.
Another sure sign that I wasn’t dead.
I spent time in the “Post-Op Room” with a lot of tubes sticking out of me, among them a “Breathing Tube.” I’d been worried about the “Breathing Tube.” I get gaggy when there’s stuff down my throat, even if it’s, like, a dinner roll. But I apparently did okay, and they soon took the tube out, after which I politely rasped, “Thank you.” (I probably didn’t, but I like to think I’m polite even when semi-comatose.)
My next stop was the “Intensive Care Unit”. When I woke up there, Dr. M and Rachel were sitting nearby. They looked happy and relieved. Or, more honestly, I think they looked happy and relieved. I don’t really know how they looked, because, before the surgery, I had relinquished my glasses, so I couldn’t actually “see” anything, which is how I wanted it, because if I could see things, I was sure I’d be concerned – read: “Ahhhhhhgh!!!” – at the sight of the tubing and I.V.’s sticking out of my body. I once touched a cactus, and afterwards, there were all these spiny things sticking out of my finger. I thought it would be like that. A human porcupine.
Apparently, one of the first things I asked after regaining consciousness was if, while performing my heart surgery, they had also straightened my (wandering) left eye. I was informed they had not, to which I was told I replied, “Fuck!” Rachel, who’s been around me for over thirty years, confessed that, during all those years, this was the first time she had ever heard me utter that word. Of course, I was kidding about the eye straightening thing. On the other hand, you know…I’m already asleep, why not give it a shot?
My first “Intensive Care” nurse (nurses switch off every twelve hours) was named Jackie. Jackie was from the Philippines. Turns out the majority of the nursing staff was from the Philippines. If, for some reason, the immigration from that country had been cut off, my hospital would have found itself so short staffed, the patients would have been relegated to treating each other.
“I’m putting in your I.V.”
“Do you know how?”
“Sort of. I watched another patient put in mine.”
With Jackie came my first test. I’m always anxious about tests, whether in school, at work, or in hospitals, especially tests you can’t prepare for. This test related to efforts to reactivate my surgery-deflated lungs. It required me, after exhaling all the way, to inhale as powerfully as I could into a tube on this toy-like plastic device, which, if inhaled into successfully, would cause three plastic balls, colored different shades of blue, to ascend up three paralleling columns. All the way to the top.
I had learned, after reading the hospital’s orientational Heart 2 Heart brochure, that, unless you could exhale all three balls to the top ten times in a row, you were not permitted to leave the hospital.
My first attempt? One ball. Half way up. I thought I heard the plastic device scoff,
“This dude’s never going home.”
Aside from a test that could change my permanent address to “Hospital”, the other worrisome issue involved sleeping. They’re doing stuff to you round the clock in hospitals, especially in “Intensive Care.” To them, the important concern is not your getting a good night’s sleep – that’s your concern – their primary focus is on keeping you from becoming dead. Their signal that you’re okay is your complaining, “Leave me alone; I’m trying to sleep.” Dead people don’t do that. They just lie there.
The morning after my surgery, the surgeon came by and removed a lot of my tubing, the exception being the tubes in my chest, which was unfortunate, because those were the ones that were giving me the most trouble. Apparently, one of the downsides of robotic surgery is that these, apparently necessary, chest tubes irritate some nearby nerves, causing your back to ache after the surgery – at a spot just inside your right shoulder blade. It’s like a discomfort-inducing knotty cramp that won’t go away. (I’ll try to go easy on the pain description. That spot in my back tightens up just by my writing about it.)
After the tube removal, I was released from “Intensive Care” and wheel-chaired to a regular “Recovery Room.” Before I was released, however, Mark (who had replaced Jackie) delivered two “Look at my face; I am very serious” instructions:
“When you get out of bed, sit on the side of it for a full minute, or you’ll get dizzy when you stand up. And, for six weeks, you are absolutely forbidden to bend down and pick up anything off the floor.”
The “side of the bed” thing was blah. I did that before I was sick. It’s natural. You get to a certain age, and when you get out of bed in the morning, you drop your feet to the floor, and you just sit there. I thought this was a personal negativity thing. “Do I really want to start another day?” But apparently it’s something real.
On the other hand, “No picking stuff off the floor?” You can’t tell me something like that. I’m Laverne and Shirley. Read me any rule, I’ll break it.
Making things worse, I happen to be a congenital “dropper.” Things fall out of my mouth, they fall out of my hands, they fall out of my pockets, and where else can they go but the floor? If I left everything I dropped in an hour just lying around, my house would look like a pigsty.
Fortunately, I have agile toes. Especially my Big Toe and The Toe Right Next To It. I am a-mazing with my toes. I can snatch up a toothpick with those babies. Sorry, deniers of evolution. There is definitely some “monkey” in me.
On the day I changed rooms, I remember gingerly lowering myself to the floor, and taking the first steps since my surgery towards the wheelchair, that would carry me to a location of diminished intensive care.
It felt pretty miraculous. I was just one day from “Open Heart Surgery” (I hate the term “Open Heart”; it sounds so Mayan.) And I was already walking.
Another sure sign that I wasn’t dead.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
"Story of a Surgery - Part Two"
The Waiting Area is the place where the patients and their families go after checking into the hospital. (The day of your surgery, my hospital validates your parking for the entire day. I think that’s very thoughtful. People fighting for their lives have enough on their minds without also having to worry about what it’s costing them for parking.)
The Waiting Area serves a dual purpose. People having surgery wait there before they’re called in. Then, after they go, family members and friends wait there, while their loved one is being carved up in another part of the building, thinking, “Earl was right here not long ago; now, he’s asleep somewhere and they’re playing with his heart.”
The two areas – the Waiting Area and the “playing with his heart” area – are divided by these doors. (Or maybe it’s one door, I can’t remember.) The door(s) is (are) the fundamental focal point of the Waiting Area. Through that (those) door(s) walks the hospital attendant, who announces to the patient that it’s time to go in. Through that (those) door(s) comes the operating room nurse, bringing updates on the surgery. And when it’s over, through that (those) door(s) comes the surgeon to report on how the whole thing turned out.
That’s (Those are) a really important door(s).
Dr. M and I are sitting in the Waiting Area pretending we’re not scared, when a man named Jose comes out. He reads some names off a list – I think there were four of them – one of which is mine. The four of us say goodbye to our loved ones (they get to come in later to final goodbyes, though hopefully not too final.) We then follow Jose through the door(s). It’s time to get ready for surgery.
The “pre-op” room is like a dormitory with a separate, curtained-off area for each patient, but they don’t close the curtains, at least not at first. You can see the other patients, sitting on their beds, waiting for what’s next. (I wonder if I look as nervous as they do. Probably yes.) I remember one sportily attired patient turning to me and saying, “Good luck.” I say “Good luck” back. (Or “You too.”) For the first time in, maybe, ever, the sentiment carry serious weight.
Stuff starts happening fast. A nurse arrives, with lots of questions. “When was the last time you ate?” “Did you take your medication?” “Are you currently wearing dentures?” I am introduced to a lot of people very quickly. Nurses. Assistants from various departments. I ask everyone their names. (I believe it will get me better treatment when I’m unconscious.) I remember the lead anesthesiologist’s name was Vince.
Everyone seems in an upbeat mood. Why not? They weren’t the ones getting cut open.
I remain focused and clear-headed. I know what’s coming; yet I feel almost euphoric. Which is unusual for me. I guess it takes major surgery to lift my spirits. I realize that, amidst the scary stuff, there’s something good about this. When it’s over, I’ll have a better valve than the regurgitating one I have now. Also, despite the risk – or maybe because of it – of the many way I perceive the situation, one of them is as a massive adventure.
At this point, my surgeon arrives, wearing an expensive suit – something I’d wear to synagogue on the High Holidays, if it wasn’t too hot. It seemed appropriate, I felt. It showed respect. My surgeon was worshipping at Temple Beth Medicine.
Dr. M is now at my side. It is time to give over my wedding ring, which is usually really hard to get off my finger. They need to use soapy liquid, but they finally slide it down. I think – but don’t say – “Does this mean I can date in the Operating Room?” Nervous humor. Not always appreciated. By everyone. But sometimes, I need it.
I had one thing to tell the surgeon. I’d rehearsed it ahead of time, so I’d be sure not to blow the line at “crunch time.” My last words to the surgeon are these:
“I don’t want you to be disappointed if this turns out to be really easy.”
(The night before the surgeon had called me and I’d told him, “During my surgery, I want you to pay special attention to my brain. I need it for later. Pay attention to my brain. Write it down.” I thought I heard a responsive chuckle, but I can’t be certain.)
During this “pre-op” encounter, my surgeon said something that was extremely upsetting to me. What he told me was this:
“If I can’t repair your valve, I’m giving you a pig valve.”
Why was this so upsetting? One – this was the first time he’d mentioned that he might not be able to repair my valve. Two – a valve-choosing selection (there are three different options) needs to be a joint decision, not just the surgeon’s alone. Three – had I been consulted, I would have told the surgeon that I definitely did not want a pig valve – not just because it’s a pig valve, and when I died, they could bury me in a Jewish cemetery, but my pig valve would have to stay in the lobby – but because unlike mechanical valves (my option of choice), which last a lifetime, animal-product valves have to be replaced in about fifteen years, which means having to through this entire ordeal all over again, and who the heck wants to do that? Not me. And I’d have to, unless I died before fifteen years, which is hardly a happier alternative!
Fourthly, this guy’s springing this on me this ten minutes before my surgery! (Which should really be first on my list, but I put it fourth for dramatic effect.)
At that moment, I was frickin’ furious! Except I wasn’t, because Vince, the anesthesiologist, was already juicing me with sedating medicine through my I.V. Can you imagine feeling livid and mellow at the same time? It’s the strangest combination. Like walking in shoes with no treads on the bottom. You can’t get a firm grip.
The next thing I know, I’m being wheeled down corridors to the Operating Room. On the way there, I can hear myself improvising an accompanying musical score. I don’t recall the melody, but it was part “Ooh-Ah” chorus and part, like, an Indian chant. It was very beautiful, totally resonant with the moment. If they’d have recorded it, they could have played it for everyone headed towards surgery. It might eventually have become the “Road To Surgery” theme song. I could have collected gurney royalties.
In the Operating Room, I remember sliding from the gurney onto the operating table, which appeared to be less like a table than the size and shape of an ironing board. I recall making that move, and then
Nothing.
I apologize for that. This is the Big Moment. The exciting climax that a story that had been unfolding over the nine previous weeks had been building to. This was the Big Payoff. The Shootout at High Noon. We’re heading the crashing crescendo.
And I can’t deliver.
Instead, my mind feels like it contains four or so hours of erased tape.
I was totally and entirely Somewhere Else. Or maybe nowhere. Disappeared in a dark and dreamless descent into…
I have absolutely no idea.
And to be honest, I wouldn’t mind knowing. This Nowhere, it was not at all an unpleasant place. If death feels like that, I would not at all mind going.
At the appropriate time. Which is, hopefully, later.
Much later.
Note: If you’re at all curious about what robot surgery looks like, type in “The Da Vinci Method” on YouTube. I didn’t look. Besides being squeamish, I don’t need to. I wuz deah poicinally.
The Waiting Area serves a dual purpose. People having surgery wait there before they’re called in. Then, after they go, family members and friends wait there, while their loved one is being carved up in another part of the building, thinking, “Earl was right here not long ago; now, he’s asleep somewhere and they’re playing with his heart.”
The two areas – the Waiting Area and the “playing with his heart” area – are divided by these doors. (Or maybe it’s one door, I can’t remember.) The door(s) is (are) the fundamental focal point of the Waiting Area. Through that (those) door(s) walks the hospital attendant, who announces to the patient that it’s time to go in. Through that (those) door(s) comes the operating room nurse, bringing updates on the surgery. And when it’s over, through that (those) door(s) comes the surgeon to report on how the whole thing turned out.
That’s (Those are) a really important door(s).
Dr. M and I are sitting in the Waiting Area pretending we’re not scared, when a man named Jose comes out. He reads some names off a list – I think there were four of them – one of which is mine. The four of us say goodbye to our loved ones (they get to come in later to final goodbyes, though hopefully not too final.) We then follow Jose through the door(s). It’s time to get ready for surgery.
The “pre-op” room is like a dormitory with a separate, curtained-off area for each patient, but they don’t close the curtains, at least not at first. You can see the other patients, sitting on their beds, waiting for what’s next. (I wonder if I look as nervous as they do. Probably yes.) I remember one sportily attired patient turning to me and saying, “Good luck.” I say “Good luck” back. (Or “You too.”) For the first time in, maybe, ever, the sentiment carry serious weight.
Stuff starts happening fast. A nurse arrives, with lots of questions. “When was the last time you ate?” “Did you take your medication?” “Are you currently wearing dentures?” I am introduced to a lot of people very quickly. Nurses. Assistants from various departments. I ask everyone their names. (I believe it will get me better treatment when I’m unconscious.) I remember the lead anesthesiologist’s name was Vince.
Everyone seems in an upbeat mood. Why not? They weren’t the ones getting cut open.
I remain focused and clear-headed. I know what’s coming; yet I feel almost euphoric. Which is unusual for me. I guess it takes major surgery to lift my spirits. I realize that, amidst the scary stuff, there’s something good about this. When it’s over, I’ll have a better valve than the regurgitating one I have now. Also, despite the risk – or maybe because of it – of the many way I perceive the situation, one of them is as a massive adventure.
At this point, my surgeon arrives, wearing an expensive suit – something I’d wear to synagogue on the High Holidays, if it wasn’t too hot. It seemed appropriate, I felt. It showed respect. My surgeon was worshipping at Temple Beth Medicine.
Dr. M is now at my side. It is time to give over my wedding ring, which is usually really hard to get off my finger. They need to use soapy liquid, but they finally slide it down. I think – but don’t say – “Does this mean I can date in the Operating Room?” Nervous humor. Not always appreciated. By everyone. But sometimes, I need it.
I had one thing to tell the surgeon. I’d rehearsed it ahead of time, so I’d be sure not to blow the line at “crunch time.” My last words to the surgeon are these:
“I don’t want you to be disappointed if this turns out to be really easy.”
(The night before the surgeon had called me and I’d told him, “During my surgery, I want you to pay special attention to my brain. I need it for later. Pay attention to my brain. Write it down.” I thought I heard a responsive chuckle, but I can’t be certain.)
During this “pre-op” encounter, my surgeon said something that was extremely upsetting to me. What he told me was this:
“If I can’t repair your valve, I’m giving you a pig valve.”
Why was this so upsetting? One – this was the first time he’d mentioned that he might not be able to repair my valve. Two – a valve-choosing selection (there are three different options) needs to be a joint decision, not just the surgeon’s alone. Three – had I been consulted, I would have told the surgeon that I definitely did not want a pig valve – not just because it’s a pig valve, and when I died, they could bury me in a Jewish cemetery, but my pig valve would have to stay in the lobby – but because unlike mechanical valves (my option of choice), which last a lifetime, animal-product valves have to be replaced in about fifteen years, which means having to through this entire ordeal all over again, and who the heck wants to do that? Not me. And I’d have to, unless I died before fifteen years, which is hardly a happier alternative!
Fourthly, this guy’s springing this on me this ten minutes before my surgery! (Which should really be first on my list, but I put it fourth for dramatic effect.)
At that moment, I was frickin’ furious! Except I wasn’t, because Vince, the anesthesiologist, was already juicing me with sedating medicine through my I.V. Can you imagine feeling livid and mellow at the same time? It’s the strangest combination. Like walking in shoes with no treads on the bottom. You can’t get a firm grip.
The next thing I know, I’m being wheeled down corridors to the Operating Room. On the way there, I can hear myself improvising an accompanying musical score. I don’t recall the melody, but it was part “Ooh-Ah” chorus and part, like, an Indian chant. It was very beautiful, totally resonant with the moment. If they’d have recorded it, they could have played it for everyone headed towards surgery. It might eventually have become the “Road To Surgery” theme song. I could have collected gurney royalties.
In the Operating Room, I remember sliding from the gurney onto the operating table, which appeared to be less like a table than the size and shape of an ironing board. I recall making that move, and then
Nothing.
I apologize for that. This is the Big Moment. The exciting climax that a story that had been unfolding over the nine previous weeks had been building to. This was the Big Payoff. The Shootout at High Noon. We’re heading the crashing crescendo.
And I can’t deliver.
Instead, my mind feels like it contains four or so hours of erased tape.
I was totally and entirely Somewhere Else. Or maybe nowhere. Disappeared in a dark and dreamless descent into…
I have absolutely no idea.
And to be honest, I wouldn’t mind knowing. This Nowhere, it was not at all an unpleasant place. If death feels like that, I would not at all mind going.
At the appropriate time. Which is, hopefully, later.
Much later.
Note: If you’re at all curious about what robot surgery looks like, type in “The Da Vinci Method” on YouTube. I didn’t look. Besides being squeamish, I don’t need to. I wuz deah poicinally.
Monday, November 30, 2009
"Story of a Surgery - Part One"
You have to watch how you write it, ‘cause how you write it is how you remember it.
BACKSTORY
August 12, 2009 – I wake up suddenly with an acute shortness of breath. The symptoms disappear.
Until…
August 19, 2009 – I discover at bedtime that I can’t lie down, because when I do, I can’t breathe. If the earlier shortness of breath was acute, this one is acutely acute.
August 20, 2009 – I visit my doctor, who, after listening to my heart and doing a cardiogram, exposes a scary, worried face and accompanies me to a nearby Emergency Room.
I’m immediately admitted to the hospital, where I’m treated for what’s quickly diagnosed as “Congestive Heart Failure.” I’m not crazy about the label. It sounds like my heart took a test and it failed. Plus, since it’s my heart and not “Geography”, a failing grade carries serious consequences, one of which is “Goodbye.”
August 24, 2009 – I am released from the hospital after two things happened: One, they drained the fluid from my lungs – which was the reason I couldn’t breathe when I tried to lie down – and two, they discovered the cause of the problem: some tendons (or something) attached to my mitral heart valve had (probably on August the 12th) become detached. (The detachment also allowed blood that the valve is supposed to keep out to, as the doctors call it, regurgitate back into my heart. Not a good thing, but not imminently life threatening. That’s why they allowed me to go home.
The hospital had taken care of the immediate problem. But they hadn’t fixed the reason the problem had occurred. To fix that would require
Surgery.
Ahhhhhhhhgh!
For the next few weeks, Dr. M and I interviewed three potential cardiac surgeons – not that they had potential to become cardiac surgeons, they already were cardiac surgeons – but that each of them could potentially have been chosen to perform my surgery. Two of the surgeons practiced the traditional method of heart surgery – cracking the breastbone and going in frontally. The third surgeon specialized in a robotic technique. The first two doctors insisted that the robotic technique was garbage. The robot-using surgeon claimed the other two were old-fashioned fuddy-duddies, unwilling to change. Such are the manners in the cardiac surgical fraternity.
We decide on the robot guy. He schedules my surgery for October 27, 2009.
END OF BACKSTORY
OCTOBER 27, 2009.
We wake up at 4:15. (Our scheduled “check-in” time is 5:30.) The night before, I had showered, as instructed, with some special, antiseptic soap. I felt like a Thanksgiving turkey, whose preparation required being buttered prior to being inserted into the oven. The difference was, I was buttering myself.
We drive to the hospital in the dark. Considering the pre-dawn scheduling of my surgery, the word “clandestine” jumps to mind. “Done in secrecy.” It feels like this is deliberate, so in case something unfortunate happens, there won’t be any witnesses.
“Did you see him come in?”
“Nobody saw him come in.”
“Is there any proof he was ever here?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Then we certainly couldn’t have killed the man.”
“What man?”
“Precisely. You can’t kill a man who wasn’t here.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Then I’d say we’re off the hook.”
“Absolutely.”
“You know what? Just to be sure…”
“Yes?”
“Next time, let’s schedule them earlier.”
“Who?”
“Oh. Right. I tripped myself up there.”
END OF PARANOID FANTASY
The side of the hospital building features a large Jewish Star. But there’s a man nailed to it. I guess they didn’t want to leave anybody out. (Please excuse the nervous comedy of questionable taste. Keep in mind that they would shortly be opening me up.)
We park the car, and I unload my Pendleton overnight bag containing the essentials for my hospital stay, (which I determined from my earlier hospital stay). I’m scared, but also excited, my precise feelings embodied in a song, published in a previous post.
(TO THE TUNE OF “TEDDY BEAR’S PICNIC”)
WHEN I GO INTO THE HOSPITAL
THEY’RE GOING TO GO THROUGH MY SIDE
THEY SAY IT’S LESS PAINFUL THAN CRACKING MY CHEST
BUT WHAT DO I DO IF THEY LIED?
THEY’LL STILL MY LUNGS
AND QUIET MY HEART
AND WHEN THEY’RE DONE
THEY HOPE THEY RESTART
TODAY’S THE DAY THE ROBOTS GO IN MY BO-DY.
We head into the hospital.
As they once said on WKRP In Cincinnati – and it really made me laugh –
It’s “Rumba Time.”
BACKSTORY
August 12, 2009 – I wake up suddenly with an acute shortness of breath. The symptoms disappear.
Until…
August 19, 2009 – I discover at bedtime that I can’t lie down, because when I do, I can’t breathe. If the earlier shortness of breath was acute, this one is acutely acute.
August 20, 2009 – I visit my doctor, who, after listening to my heart and doing a cardiogram, exposes a scary, worried face and accompanies me to a nearby Emergency Room.
I’m immediately admitted to the hospital, where I’m treated for what’s quickly diagnosed as “Congestive Heart Failure.” I’m not crazy about the label. It sounds like my heart took a test and it failed. Plus, since it’s my heart and not “Geography”, a failing grade carries serious consequences, one of which is “Goodbye.”
August 24, 2009 – I am released from the hospital after two things happened: One, they drained the fluid from my lungs – which was the reason I couldn’t breathe when I tried to lie down – and two, they discovered the cause of the problem: some tendons (or something) attached to my mitral heart valve had (probably on August the 12th) become detached. (The detachment also allowed blood that the valve is supposed to keep out to, as the doctors call it, regurgitate back into my heart. Not a good thing, but not imminently life threatening. That’s why they allowed me to go home.
The hospital had taken care of the immediate problem. But they hadn’t fixed the reason the problem had occurred. To fix that would require
Surgery.
Ahhhhhhhhgh!
For the next few weeks, Dr. M and I interviewed three potential cardiac surgeons – not that they had potential to become cardiac surgeons, they already were cardiac surgeons – but that each of them could potentially have been chosen to perform my surgery. Two of the surgeons practiced the traditional method of heart surgery – cracking the breastbone and going in frontally. The third surgeon specialized in a robotic technique. The first two doctors insisted that the robotic technique was garbage. The robot-using surgeon claimed the other two were old-fashioned fuddy-duddies, unwilling to change. Such are the manners in the cardiac surgical fraternity.
We decide on the robot guy. He schedules my surgery for October 27, 2009.
END OF BACKSTORY
OCTOBER 27, 2009.
We wake up at 4:15. (Our scheduled “check-in” time is 5:30.) The night before, I had showered, as instructed, with some special, antiseptic soap. I felt like a Thanksgiving turkey, whose preparation required being buttered prior to being inserted into the oven. The difference was, I was buttering myself.
We drive to the hospital in the dark. Considering the pre-dawn scheduling of my surgery, the word “clandestine” jumps to mind. “Done in secrecy.” It feels like this is deliberate, so in case something unfortunate happens, there won’t be any witnesses.
“Did you see him come in?”
“Nobody saw him come in.”
“Is there any proof he was ever here?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Then we certainly couldn’t have killed the man.”
“What man?”
“Precisely. You can’t kill a man who wasn’t here.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Then I’d say we’re off the hook.”
“Absolutely.”
“You know what? Just to be sure…”
“Yes?”
“Next time, let’s schedule them earlier.”
“Who?”
“Oh. Right. I tripped myself up there.”
END OF PARANOID FANTASY
The side of the hospital building features a large Jewish Star. But there’s a man nailed to it. I guess they didn’t want to leave anybody out. (Please excuse the nervous comedy of questionable taste. Keep in mind that they would shortly be opening me up.)
We park the car, and I unload my Pendleton overnight bag containing the essentials for my hospital stay, (which I determined from my earlier hospital stay). I’m scared, but also excited, my precise feelings embodied in a song, published in a previous post.
(TO THE TUNE OF “TEDDY BEAR’S PICNIC”)
WHEN I GO INTO THE HOSPITAL
THEY’RE GOING TO GO THROUGH MY SIDE
THEY SAY IT’S LESS PAINFUL THAN CRACKING MY CHEST
BUT WHAT DO I DO IF THEY LIED?
THEY’LL STILL MY LUNGS
AND QUIET MY HEART
AND WHEN THEY’RE DONE
THEY HOPE THEY RESTART
TODAY’S THE DAY THE ROBOTS GO IN MY BO-DY.
We head into the hospital.
As they once said on WKRP In Cincinnati – and it really made me laugh –
It’s “Rumba Time.”
Friday, November 27, 2009
"The Best of Earl" (24)
"Celebrating The Election Of The First Black President"
M-m-m-Monday! Monday! Monday! Brand new posts begin. Are you excited? Me too!
M-m-m-Monday! Monday! Monday! Brand new posts begin. Are you excited? Me too!
Thursday, November 26, 2009
"The Best of Earl" (23)
"Too Big For My Bathing Suit - Part Two"
Is it Monday yet? I can't wait. Why? Brand new posts. I read the first one. It sounds just like the good ones.
Is it Monday yet? I can't wait. Why? Brand new posts. I read the first one. It sounds just like the good ones.
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