Under the Knife

Those of you that have followed my blogs for the past four seasons know that I have had more than my fair share of surgery. I was run over by a drunken driver years ago, and still, to this day, suffer consequences of that past trauma.

That said, I just recently had yet another surgical procedure, but, unlike the many in the past, this one was not related to the auto accident. The cause for the most recent event is still TBD.

Having been a veteran of multiple operations I was planning on taking myself to the hospital, undergoing the procedure, then taking a taxi home. My wife had a different idea. The day went something like this:

Surgery was scheduled for 6 am. That meant that I had to be at the hospital at 5 am. (Do you think our clients would tolerate that schedule?). We were late arriving.

“You're late, Ms. Mader.” The gruff, morning receptionist barked at my wife when we arrived from the rainy parking lot.

“Doug was hiding under the bed.” My wife tried to explain. “I tried to get him out but he just kept crawling back further.” She threw her hands up in the air, as if the histrionics would help with the explanation. “I finally had to get my neighbor to come over. He brought his big push broom to try and scooch Doug out.” She pointed at me, as if the nurse forgot who I was. “When that didn't work, we bribed him out by putting Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the car.” My wife was proud of her trickery.

“He was supposed to be fasted, Ms. Mader. Are you telling me that he ate this morning?”

“No! He didn't eat.” My wife was miffed at the nurses' insinuation that she did not follow instructions. “I only gave him the Krispy Kremes to get him in the car. The Diet Coke was just to wash down the sugar.”

We finally got into the prep area. My wife was allowed to come in to be with me. She wanted to watch the surgery but the mean doctor would not allow her in the O.R. My previous doctor always allowed her to watch my surgeries.

The nurse tried to place the IV catheter but the vein blew. She turned to the second nurse and had her do it. “She's in training.” The more experienced nurse announced. “You have to let her practice or she'll never learn.”

When the nurse turned to fill out some paperwork I tried to chew the catheter out.

“Bad, Doug!” The nurse grabbed the scruff of my neck and gave a shake. My wife immediately pulled me away from the nurse and coddled me in her arms. She knew how scared I was. These nurses and doctors obviously had no compassion. It was clear that they were only in it for the money.

When things settled down the anesthesiologist finally came in to review the anesthetic plan. Before he could say anything my wife proclaimed “He is very sensitive to anesthesia, Doc.” She looked the older M.D. in the eyes. “His whole family, they have had a lot of surgery, and are more sensitive to anesthesia than other people. It's in his genetics.”

I could see that the doctor seemed stumped.

“Also, Doc, be real careful. I think the last doctor gave him a little too much last time.” She patted me on the head. “It took him a long time to recover.”

As the orderly wheeled me out of the room to the O.R. my wife called out “I want to be there when he recovers, I want to be the first thing he sees!”

Thankfully, surgery went fine. Back in the patient room the nurse pointed to the large bandage on my arm and said, “make sure that stays dry. Keep him quiet, no using the arm and come back in 7 days for suture removal.” She gave my wife some pills for me to take and stated, “make sure he gets one of these every 8 hours.”

My wife looked at the bottle, studied it, then said, critically, “on the bottle it says to give the pills 'THREE TIMES A DAY!'” Stupid nurse.

As I was being pushed out of the hospital in the wheelchair. A wheelchair, for God's sake! It was my arm that they did surgery on. The lady at the cashier wanted us to pay. My wife forgot her purse at home.

The bandage on my arm was big and bulky. As soon as we got in the car, thankfully, my wife took it off. That night, while sleeping, probably because of all the extra anesthesia, I must have somehow accidentally scratched out the stitches.

In retrospect there probably really wasn't that much blood, but, at three in the morning, it sure seemed like it was everywhere. So, my wife called the E.R. to see if there was anything she could put on the hole in my arm.

“Ms. Mader, you should probably bring him in to have it closed. We don't want the arm to get infected.” The E.R. doc explained.

“I sure hope you are not going to charge us again, are you?”