Finally, maybe about lunchtime, I was accepted through dungeon doors, escorted into a small room, told to sit down and wait. A large TV was on, and for a short time, I watched as some kind of reality show demonstrated people reacting after they’d been tricked into drinking way too much.
Although I could see no bloodshed, some contestants took falls that were decidedly unfunny and undoubtedly damaged their bodies. Medical personnel was consulted, and as far as I could tell (the TV sound level was slightly below a murmur), critiqued how badly the drunks performed, how lucky they were to fall down hard but safely due to being so loosey-goosey. In one case, I’m sure they discussed possible brain damage, but—hell—as long as waivers were signed, who cares? I could explain more, but I’m getting queasy, or rather was, until I ignored the TV.
After a relatively short wait, someone entered the room, told me to undress completely, and don a flimsy piece of fabric … also a pair of “sockies”—ankle-length slippers, with small grip-strips top and bottom. I think medical folks didn’t want me skating around the room.
So there I sat … and waited. And waited. About every half-hour, someone came by to laugh at my nakedness—no, to check my blood pressure. Oddly, it was low. Fact is, I felt no apprehension … or perhaps the pressure was low because my blood had frozen with fear.
Early on, somebody—it could have been a Martian for all I know—pierced a vein, and hooked me up to an IV (“intravenous” drip, right?). Sometime later, a nurse said I’d be visited by my surgeon and an anesthesiologist, who would explain procedures. An hour or two after that, she came by to apologize, saying there’d been a delay in carving up some poor soul ahead of me.
I didn’t care. I was used to waiting and now understood why a doctor’s clients are called “patience.”
At some point, someone gave me a tranquilizer; I’m a little hazy on this, understandably. The anesthesiologist dropped by, finally, to assure me I wouldn’t feel a thing. Yeah sure, I said to myself. I’ve heard that one before, like at a dentist’s office. He continued, as I recall, “We’re going to give you a general.” I was impressed. During my three years in the US Army, I’d never met a general, and here they were, going to give me one of my own. At this point in my treatment, I was so “high” I was practically in orbit.
Next, my urologist entered, wearing a top hat, white tie, carrying a cane. No, that can’t be; how silly. Fact is, my senses were so dulled he could have been naked, although I seriously doubt that, now that I’m in partial possession of my faculties.
He proceeded to set my mind at ease about post-surgery reactions, saying (no kidding) something like, “If your urine looks like rosé wine, that is normal. If it looks like Cabernet, again that is normal. Even if it looks like a fine port wine, you’re okay.” At that point, I felt we were going to have one helluva party after my surgery. “But,” he continued, “if it resembles V-8 juice, call me immediately. We may have to open you up again.”
Well, that set my mind at ease. Actually, I was so at ease already that I wouldn’t have noticed if he stuck a nail in my eye. I think I nodded—ready for the next step … dancing girls, maybe.
The anesthesiologist stuck a needle in my IV tube-ware, and nothing happened. I didn’t count backward from 99; didn’t drift quietly off to sleep. I simply disappeared. No pain; no discomfort; no sensations; no voices in the background; not even any dreams I can recall. I just left the universe without further thought.
I must’ve got up and wandered hospital hallways during the operation’s expected hour and a half. It could’ve been a century and a half as far as I’m concerned. Anyway, nurses located me—recovered me—and moved me, appropriately enough, into the Recovery room.
There, I reappeared, feeling none the worse for wear, or is that tear? A nurse asked if I was in pain. I answered, “Some.”
“On a scale of zero to six, how much pain?”
“About a one,” I answered to my surprise. After roto-rooting, I’d have expected to be screaming at that point.
The nurse requested help, and two of them lifted/slid me from one bed to another, a process made easier since I rested on a plastic pallet of some kind. The pallet stayed with me as I settled into my new hospital bed. It was all professionally done, and I still admire how easily two young women accomplished the transfer. I’m not exactly light as a feather. Think more of a Volkswagen.
A nurse, I believe her name was Tonya, rolled my bed into a hospital room, and hooked up an IV. She showed me how to control the bed’s posture, how to signal for help if needed, and how to operate the room’s TV. I had no interest whatever in TV, and never did throughout my stay. That, more than anything else, says how seriously my body resented its surgical invasion.
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