Monday, June 04, 2007
Surgery #2 Down
As of Friday I'm minus one two-inch screw through my tibia and fibula. Yeehaw.
Except that I hate surgery. Just glad this one's over. (Final one to take out plate and screws in October.) First I don't like not being able to eat or drink after midnight. Especially drink. I'm a water person. The surgery was scheduled at 12. Of course the doc was running late, and I kept getting thirstier. I think he was out surfing. All that water, and I get nothin'. I finally got in to the first room sometime after 1:00.
The nurse starts asking me questions. I fall into a rhythm, staring at the floor, my head wagging with each answer.
"Had a stroke?"
"Smoke, drink, medications?"
"No, no, no."
"Any accidents resulting in broken bones lately?"
I cut a look up at her. "You're kidding, right?"
Nope, she's not. She's just following her list of questions. Apparently she has no idea who I am or why I'm there.
"Any recent surgeries?"
No, I was born with the screw you're about to take out of my leg.
I have to explain.
Questions over, I get dressed in a lovely gown. I ask for one with bling, but they don't have any. KEO (knock 'em out) doc and Bone Doc finally appear. They're only a couple hours late.
I swallow hard. This is really gonna happen. "Hey, you guys--long lunch?"
Bone Doc nods. "Yeah. It was great." He surveys me. "So. What are we doing for you today?"
Okay, now I'm really nervous.
"You're taking a screw outta my leg."
"Right." Like he knew that. So why'd he ask? "Which leg?"
Maybe we ought to just call this whole thing off. He's acting like he's never seen me before. Rationally, I understand. Too many docs have operated on the wrong side of a body. It's a law suit thing. They want to be extra sure. They want me to sign a paper saying what they're doing for me--exactly where. Still, when you're about to be put under by these guys--you just wish they'd act a little more informed.
Nurse takes out a pen and writes on my left leg. I don't see what she writes until later that night. It's profound.
I'm wheeled into the operating room. Thing's big and packed with equipment. They tell me to move from my comfortable bed to the operating one. It's narrow. It's hard. I complain. They strap me in.
"How in the world you get a wide person on this thing?"
"You'd be amazed what we can do."
KEO takes my left hand. "Okay, this is going to sting a little."
It does. And does again. And again. And again. He can't find my vein. I make faces at the ceiling.
"Oh, hey, doc. Forgot to tell you 'bout the 10-ounce, medium rare steak I had for breakfast."
He ignores me.
The IV's finally in. My adrenaline pumps. My legs start to shake. Drat. I hate this part.
This is when I start quoting Psalm 91:
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
Will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say to the Lord, "My rock and my fortress,
The God in whom I trust..."
They put a mask over my mouth and nose. No more quoting. "Okay, breathe deep."
Yeah, yeah, I'm breathin', I'm breathin'.
"All right, just a little initial medication now. Might make you feel a little sleepy."
Yeah, right, just a 'little medication.' I've heard that one bef--
I wake up.
Takes awhile before I can open my eyes. I'm in a recovery room, curtains all around. My legs are shaking to beat the band--I mean smacking against the table like a regular grand mal seizure. Most annoying. It's the anesthesia. Does it to me every time.
A nurse comes. Helps me get dressed. "Nice bra," she says. "Where'd you get it?"
What, I just fell into a Victoria's Secret commercial? I look around for the hidden cameras.
I'm wheeled out to the car. Hubby drives me home.
So here I am. One screw loose--actually totally gone. Back in the boot for a week. Good news is, I don't have to go to physical therapy for a few days. Take that, PT.
Speaking of my physical therapist. The one who puts me through so much misery because it's "good for me." So can she take a little stress herself?
I gave her one of my books. Whatdya think she did?
Read the last page first.
Read Part 13