(Post-Op. Photo Credit: 'Lifesaver Lizz.')
…Although I’m not sure I’d call it “morning” because it was still dark out, and Peter and I were both too tired to carry on a conversation.
As I crutched into the waiting room, my stomach was uneasy. I felt antsy, anxious, nervous and somewhat scared as I waited among a dozen other pre-op patients to hear my last name. When it was finally called, we followed the surgeon's coordinator down a long, empty hall towards the curtained rooms, and right before the door, the surgery attendant turned around to me and so nonchalantly said, “Okay, say your goodbyes and follow me.”
I don’t know if it was the careless way he said it, the word “goodbye,” the thought of the anesthesia risks the hospital has disclaimed the previous day, my nerves, the fear of being alone -- probably a compilation of it all -- but I was in tears as I said goodbye to Peter and turned to follow the man into the pre-op room.
Once inside my designated, curtained area, donned in backless gown and blue hair net, on came the needles, IV, blood drawling, blood pressure arm band, heart monitor, cords taped all over my chest and stomach… So much for trying to calm my nerves.
And after almost three hours of lying there, repeatedly answering questions (like: What ankle is it? Do you have a history of family health problems? Did you eat anything this morning? Do you smoke? Do you drink? Etc, etc, ad nauseum)… it was finally time for the surgery.
A nurse came and wheeled me into a cold, open operating room complete with flat screen TVs on the walls and enough lamps to catch some UV rays, and I was told to scoot from my bed to the thinly cushioned table.
The last things I remember from that room are: a nurse putting a mask over my mouth, telling me to take deep breaths, another nurse asking my surgeon what type of music he wanted to listen to (judging by the pain, I'm not sure I like his taste of music), and as they straightened me out on the table and tied down my arms and legs, I was scared, but then: I was
out.
Two pins, a metal plate and two hours later…I awoke to someone pushing me to the recovery room. This part seems a little foggy in my mind, but I was greeted by Laura, an older lady who I now know of as my recovery nurse. I remember trying to make conversation with her, but looking back, I have no idea what I was saying.
Nonetheless, Laura was great. She called Lizz, my post-op lifesaver, who took the day off to sit with me in the recovery room and take me home when I was ready. She called my mom to assure her I was okay. She got me cranberry juice, crackers, painkillers, drugs for my IV drip. And finally, when I started to make sense of everything, including the pain, Laura called the anesthesiologists back to give me the “block” they thought I wouldn’t initially need.
The “block.” Much like an epidural to numb the pain, the doctor (who brought along two residents to demonstrate) used an ultrasound machine over my kneecap, as he dug around in the back of my leg, behind my knee, with a two-inch needle to numb the nerve leading to my lower leg. And when I say “looking for,” I mean, he was pointing out to the students everywhere the needle was on the ultrasound screen. Thankfully I was drugged up enough to kindly tell him to “Just do it already.” And soon thereafter, my leg was numb (much like the feeling when a limb falls asleep, sometimes consequence of sitting too long) and I was at ease.
