________
PART TWO
(If you haven't read Part One of my adventures in surgery, please scroll down. Part One is published below, following Part Two)
The echocardiogram was done later in the week at Saint Francis Medical Center, our local hospital. I always feel more confident when a hospital bears the name of a holy person.
Being a Catholic and a great believer in saints, I was a little miffed that Francis himself couldn’t take the time to stop by and wish me well. I guess he was too busy out in the meditation garden shaking those damn birds off his finger.
The echocardiogram required me to lie on my side, with wires taped to my chest. The technician then rested an ultrasonic wand on various parts of my upper torso while she dialed up digital images on a machine. My heart in all its beating glory appeared on a screen.
There were reds, blues, and greens shooting across the image. “It looks like the Weather Channel’s Dopplar radar,” I said.
My wife, who was watching from a chair across the room, said, “And I think you’re suffering from an upper level disturbance.”
As it turned out, the echocardiogram revealed nothing serious. The worst part were the jitters leading up to it.
I had imagined the worst, which as I understood, would be a leaky heart valve. That would require surgery far more serious than a hernia repair.
But that was not the case and I got the okay to proceed with the surgery I had signed up for. Suddenly, I was ecstatic that I was having my hernia repaired. In no way did I want to title this column The Hernia (and Heart) Chronicles!
So I was told to report back a week later to Saint Francis (the hospital, not the guy) for the real deal. I was given my instructions and sent on my un-merry way.
Surprisingly, these days the pre-op restrictions aren’t that bad. I didn’t have to begin my fast until midnight. I always fast after midnight. It’s fasting during Lent that kills me.
The evening before, we enjoyed our routine Sunday chicken dinner. I have to admit, my appetite wasn’t particularly whetted.
I did not relish the idea that, within 14 hours, I’d be anesthetized. That would be a new experience for me.
Painless? Oh, sure. Waking up afterwards? Sorry, no guarantees.
I began to wonder if this could be my final meal! You’d think, with that in mind, I’d take seconds or maybe even thirds.
Just in case this truly would be the last supper.
But when the meal was over, instead of breaking bread and giving it to my disciples, I told my wife, “I want pie.”
And there was pie. And it was good.
I ate the last piece at 11:59.
We arrived at the hospital bright and early the next morning. I was immediately shown to what would be my recovery room.
Oh good! Apparently, they expected me to recover!
The nurses stopped by to check my blood pressure and my pulse, to draw blood and to bore a hole in my wrist. This is where they would put the IV (or 4, as I like to call it) that would relax me just before they killed me.
Before long, I was led to a comfortable bed with warm sheets. The IV was started and within seconds, I was truly relaxed.
I can’t tell you much about what happened next. I remember a mask being placed over my face.
If they asked me to count to ten backwards or some such nonsense as that, I didn’t hear them. I had my own recitation prepared:
“Now I lay me down to sleep……..”
An hour later I was back in the recovery room and was offered coffee and toast. The coffee was a welcome beverage after the fast.
The toast was a different story. I think St. Francis himself baked it, back when he was still alive in the 13th century.
My wife said I dozed off a lot during the course of the afternoon. One nurse was concerned that I wasn’t responding as brightly as she would liked to have seen.
Well, excuse me! I'm sorry I couldn't have been more chipper...maybe performed a song and dance for the entire surgery ward!
Then there was the matter of plumbing. She told my wife that they wouldn’t dismiss me until I had peed.
I’m here to tell you. When you’ve had very little to drink over a 12-15 hour period, and you did your stand up latrine duty a few times, the last just before being taken to the surgery room…..well, the bladder is empty and it’s sending no signal to the brain or anywhere else.
Not to mention that every time I stood in that cold hospital john, I started getting the shakes so bad, I was questioning whether this was actually St. Francis Hospital or the Betty Ford Center.
By late afternoon, the nurse ordered a bladder scan. I was hooked up to a machine and the technician proceeded to move a wand around my abdominal area.
“Hmmmm,” she said.
I’ve never liked the word hmmmm when used by someone in the medical profession. It often telegraphs concern.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m not getting a reading,” she said. She smiled. “I guess you have no bladder.”
“It’s probably shriveled up and turned to dust,” I said.
Finally, she hit pay dirt. Yes, I had a bladder and, while not much, there was something sloshing around in there.
So the nurse called my surgeon with the report. He explained that I wasn’t holding enough to create any urges and to send me home.
Which she did. And late that evening, Wendel’s Waterworks returned to a normal state.
Had I known the nurse's home phone number, I would have called her at home and got her out of bed, just to report the happy news.
It’s been nearly three weeks now. I’m returning to work on Monday.
I’ve gotten kind of used to hanging out at home, resting in a recliner and hitting the correct buttons on the remote without even looking.
I’ve made friends with Regis and Kelly, the ladies from The View, and got to see Oprah’s Farewell. I’m getting caught up on the news and my reading. I’ve had some great conversations with my friends on Facebook.
But now its time to return to life as I knew it, which was doctor-free (and there are two words that rarely go together).
I’ve had enough excellent adventures to last me the rest of my life.
Copyright 2011 by Wendel Potter
________
