Exactly one week ago today, we were driving down to Franklin on the "Gorge" Road where Martha ran the 5000-meters in the the Senior Games. (It is an eye-opener, by the way, to see the long stream of traffic that commutes to Highlands every morning, consisting of the many contractors, housekeepers, yard maintenance men, and service industry employees who cannot afford to live in Highlands.) But this morning we left a little later since I had been told to be at Angel Medical Center at 11:00 a.m.
After we had registered and they had fastened that white plastic bracelet firmly on my arm, I was led into our room for surgical prep. "I have never had general anesthesia before," I remember saying, "So this will be an adventure!" I tried to keep that positive, almost jovial attitude throughout this long day. These nurses are exceptional people, and they must deal with all kinds of patients, some of them no doubt ill-tempered, unhealthy, perhaps terrified about the entire experience. Michelle and Stephanie couldn't have been nicer as they inserted the IV, hooked me up, and stripped me of clothing and dignity, as expected. (Really, why does that gown fasten behind you?) Michelle had worked at Highlands-Cashiers Hospital and we had many friends in common. Stephanie turned out to be a runner with four marathons behind her and many running friends in common. Dr. Blue, my anesthesiologist, introduced himself and explained to me all of the things they were going to do, and asked me if I had any anxiety; some patients, he said, changed their minds at the last minute and were grabbing wildly at the door as they were being wheeled out of the room. I told him no, not especially, at least until after he had explained it all, including the tube they intended to insert down my throat. I felt some pride when he pronounced my airway excellent and expressed surprise that a 70-year-old man was not taking any medications except for vitamin supplements, all the while thinking that with a name like Doctor Blue he was surely missing his calling as a blues musician, or a disc jockey at the very least.
Dr. Robles came in, too, my surgeon, in whom I had the utmost confidence. As they wheeled me into the operating room,I was told that I was in good hands, and I realized that I really was, in the best hands possible: not only the hands of the Great Healer who carries us all in his hands, but that kind and patient hand of Martha (which I held until wheeled from the room), and the hands of the small but dedicated group of men and women who had said they would be praying for me, and the skilled hands of these doctors and nurses who took me into their care. "What did men who developed hernias do 100 years ago, before modern medicine?" I wondered. Martha reminded me that life expectancy was not very long back then. As the effects of the drugs dripping slowly through my veins took effect, and the bright lights of the operating room appeared, I was thinking of this "cloud of witnesses" supporting me, supporting all of us. To believe you can go through life alone, not caring for anybody else, is easy (as one of our Pastors once memorably told us at a funeral). But such a person is a fool.
The rest was all a blur, as readers of this blog who have themselves undergone the "adventure" of surgery and general anesthesiology can attest, and I awoke after an hour or two of completely dreamless sleep to blurred shapes and friendly voices, welcoming me back to the world, and examined with interest that tiny bandages where the laparoscopy had occurred, through which the supporting mesh had been mysteriously inserted, unfurled (in my imagination) like a scroll, and sutured to the wall of my abdomen.
And then finally there was the face of Martha greeting me in my room again, my faithful partner, taking charge, driving me to the drug store and then back up that green, green Gorge to Highlands and home. And I slept well last night, partly due to that little oblong white pill from the drug store, but partly from the knowledge that now my convalescence can begin. I like that word better than "recovery" or "recuperation." It is borrowed from the Middle French, my etymological dictionary tells me, and in turn from the Late Latin convalēscentia (“regaining of health”), and from the earlier Latin convalēscō (“regain health, grow strong”). And so I shall. Beginning with writing this post.
No comments:
Post a Comment