Surgery, I had, they tell me

Written By: Charles - Sep• 28•12

Fall                                                                         Harvest Moon

Drove into the city yesterday to Abbott-Northwestern Hospital.  Checked in and had to add, along with my name and date, the time to several spots on various pieces of paper.

After a brief wait, I went to the area for ritual preparation of the sacrifice, removed all my real world clothes and exchanged them for a purple garment made of paper.  Many people asked my name several times, my surgeon, Dawn Johnson, came and autographed my groin.  A nurse anesthetist found a big vein, asked if she could use it and I said sure.

The IV went in there.  Then, the first of the Versid.  It could better be named Lethe after the river of forgetfullness that flows through Hades for that’s its function.  I saw the operating theater.  Felt them lay my arms out in a cruciform manner.  “Just like an execution,” I said.  “Oh, no.  I don’t think so,” a nurse said.  It was, though.

There was a large tray with many sharp instruments, a number of tables and screens and such that looked as if they stayed there between operations, waiting for some future use.  Above me were two lights with mica like scales, I assume to give even, penetrating light.

There were scratch marks on the giant arms that held the lights.

Then, I woke up as my gurney careened (to me) down the hall passing light after light, door after door, the sacrifice already given and I missed the whole thing.  Forgot it.

In the recovery room my nurse’s name was Helen, whose face launched a thousand ships.  My consciousness danced in and out, opening the screen, then closing it.  Kate came back and I was very glad to see her.

By 2:30 pm we were in the Rav4 and headed back to Andover.  We drove in, something happened of which I have no memory, only wounds and we returned to our house.

Where, since then, I have been in the care of nurse, nurse anesthetist, pediatrician and after hours physician, Kate.  It’s been good to be in her ward.

Now, with the aid of Vicodin, I ride through the adaptations my body must make to this insult.  But, an insult with a purpose.  The hernia repaired and a mesh installed.  Or, so they tell me.

You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.