Thursday of last week I went to the hospital to have a pacemaker implanted. In the days leading up to the “procedure” I was reminded why having a vivid and active imagination can have drawbacks as I found myself envisioning horrible complications during the operation resulting in my untimely death. If I survive this, I vowed, for the rest of my days I will appreciate every moment. I will savor favorite sounds, tastes, smells, sights and feelings. I’ll not waste a second, instead living life to the fullest.
I can be so dramatic.
None of my fears were shared with anyone save for jokes with the missus about her soon being a widow. She was not amused.
As you may have already gathered, I survived the operation and this has not been written from the great beyond.
There is something oddly exciting about showing up for operation. After all it’s a sharp break from one’s normal routine. There is also the understanding that a team of people are going to be looking after you and one’s only obligation is to be polite and follow simple instructions like extending your arm or taking a deep breath. This is in my wheelhouse.
After checking in I was led to a large waiting area. My first assignment was to undress and put on one of the lovely hospital gowns that are so stylish and practical. I then endured the first of a series of tests of my blood pressure, pulse, temperature and ability to be patient through a battery of repetitive tests. I passed.
Next I met a young man (most people seem young to me these days, hell, he could have been in his forties) who did an echocardiogram of my heart. I got to see it in action, the old ticker doesn't look a day over fifty. The echocardiogrammer (how does one decide to go into that line of work?) informed me that my heart looked healthy. Relief. So I can go home now? But no, we were just getting started.
The anesthesiologist was next. Here was a man who would have my life in his hands. Too much juice could send me into the long goodbye. He was a most amiable chap, reassuring in the ways that a medical professional should be. He explained what was to be done and I understood more than half of what he said. He said they were getting the room ready for me "after the last victim." It was the kind of humor I would use.
One of 20,000 nurses I was to see in the coming twenty-fours then brought me a toothbrush and mouthwash. I can only imagine that doctors have grown weary of operating on patients with foul breath. I obliged and did an oral cleanse.
Finally the cardiologist himself popped in and gave me the 4-1-1. He's a person who positively oozes professionalism and by the time he had finished previewing coming attractions I was ready and confident. I just might live through this, I thought.
I was wheeled into the operating room on a gurney, a fun ride to be sure, though one struggles to look dignified while wearing a hospital gown and being pushed around on wheels.
Upon entering the room I immediately remarked that it “looks like the set of 2001.” There followed a series of quips bandied about by me and the crew that was prepping for my procedure. I was thus even further at ease. Meanwhile I was hooked to an IV and it was not long before I was waking in post-op with no memory of having an incision made in my chest nor a metal object being placed in my body. There was a gigantic bandage in my upper left chest area, as if I'd taken enemy shrapnel.
I was high as a kite.
This is not a desirable condition for a recovering addict/alcoholic but given the circumstances there was nothing to be done for it and no amends needed be made.
There was a post op nurse seated near and I proceeded to talk her ear off — the poor dear. It is my hazy recollection that she was a fetching young woman and more than that charming and affable. I don’t recall the topics of our discourse but I was particularly garrulous and — god, I hope not, — perhaps flirtatious. As my darling wife later observed she was likely well used to people emerging from surgery acting goofy as hell.
When I was wheeled out of the room I had the horrible feeling that I was being taken away from a new found love. Indeed I distinctly remember thinking that I was in love with the post op nurse. For her part I'm sure she was delighted to have seen the last of me.
But I was so giddy from the drugs that I quickly recovered and started gabbing incessantly at the poor soul that was taking me to my room. The hours that follow are a blur but I know they were replete with more tests and a battery of questions. I was finally allowed to eat though I don’t remember the first thing I had nor what I thought of it. I also recall chatting on the phone with my wife and that she and older daughter later came to visit. Now my beloveds were subjected to my verbal diarrhea. But no matter I was good spirits and my family has developed a tolerance for my nonsense and indulged me.
Younger daughter called from New York so that she too could share in hearing crazy old dad blather on.
I was to spend the night in the hospital which I’d already been given to understand was a strong likelihood. Low points were to come. First there was dinner. I ordered what they laughingly referred to as a Caesar salad along with mashed potatoes and a fruit cup. Everything tasted like it was prepared during the Eisenhower administration and to make matters worse I confused the gravy for my potatoes with dressing for my salad. This did nothing to enhance the “flavor” of the salad and made me wonder if I were tasting the worst dressing in the history of hospital food.
Anyway, the cold water was good.
Getting to sleep was a near impossibility especially since the room temperature was a notch or two warmer than a Turkish prison in August. I finally managed to doze when about two hours later bright lights were shining in my face and I was subjected to — you guessed it — more tests. What cruel form of torture was this? Somehow I fell back to sleep only to be subjected to another round of tests two hours later. Health care professionals or sadists?
The morning came and the pain meds were wearing off leaving me with soreness in the incision area and the distinct feeling that I hadn’t slept in a fortnight.
Released in late morning, the missus picked me up — figuratively — and to blessed home we went. My wife bought me a delicious lunch featuring salmon — my favorite. I ate ravenously and all was well with the world. Well, sort of. There was torture to come. The pain meds had caused constipation that would persist for two uncomfortable days and I had a dull pain in my left shoulder that has kept me from certain tasks such as typing. I’ve been trying to write this post since Monday but the pain has prevented more than a few paragraphs a day and even now the shoulder throbs.
Still I went for a long walk on Monday and Tuesday was teaching again. Yesterday I had the bandage removed and this morning was able to resume normal showering. The shoulder pain is not so bad and there’s every hope that it’ll be gone in a few days time.
Best of all my fears of a sudden, shocking death during a routine procedure proved unfounded.
As stated at the beginning, I vowed before the procedure that should I survive (what a drama queen) I would savor every remaining minute. Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. I’ll do my best. No promises. I do have an even greater appreciation for my wife, daughters, friends, nieces and nephews and their mates and children. What lovely people I surround myself with.
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