We few, we hungry few, can smell your raw food and processed snacks as well.
Midnight is the arbitrary cutoff for people who are going to take the big medicated sleep and these rules applied to me today. I wasn’t nervous about the procedure. It is an out-patient thing. And while he wasn’t blowing us off, I got the impression that my surgeon has done a few hundred thousand collarbones. The details were just things to him, variables to move on feel and instinct. But I’m a detail guy, especially when they involve me being cut. I’d become a little nervous then, over the last week, about my unknowns.
And so it was that I found myself eyeing the clock at 11:56 last night, focusing on that one detail I could see, pounding down grapes.
That sign, by the way, was in the first waiting room of the surgery center. There were three volunteers there, all bent to the task of trying to help one man get access to the WiFi. There were also two administrative people across the room. They had the volunteers walk through the long waiting room to call out patients. Not sure why the administrative types couldn’t do it. Maybe they were shy. Maybe they were union.
Patients receive a little badge with a color and a number scheme to preserve medical privacy. I was Red Number Thirty. They called me up for paperwork. They called me up to make my co-pay. They called me up for more paperwork. They called me up to sign something that was a receipt for something I hadn’t received. I believe I purchased property in Phenix City.
After a short while, though, Red Number Thirty was called for a fourth time. The volunteer then walked us to an intermediate waiting room. There are stages of waiting. In this second room there were fewer chairs, fewer people and the real understanding that we were all getting closer.
We stayed there maybe two minutes. The volunteer in that waiting room took a handful of us to our pre-op destinations in a large group. This was where I had to leave The Yankee behind. But I had a nice nurse to chat with distractedly. We talked about military service — she’d been in the Navy — and education and hemoglobin.
The surgeon, an older gentleman who clearly has it together, came by and I asked him a few of my scripted questions from memory. The most relevant: I won’t feel any worse after the surgery. This was purely for morale. We talked about arm movements and rehab. The anesthesiologist, a robust Englishman, dropped by. I asked for a double of everything; he promised to take care of me.
Somehow we learned that I’d be waiting awhile, so the very nice nurse who’s name I can no longer recall brought my wife into my littler curtained staging area. While we killed time chatting the nurse slipped me the good stuff without my knowing about it.
About four hours later I woke up. My tongue was two feet thick, making it hard to explain they’d managed to get the head of an ax stuck in my shoulder blade. This, boys and girls, hurt. After I said this three times some unseen soul understood and bade the post-operative drugs do their bidding.
They later sent us home where I settled into my chair for a nap before a late lunch of soup. Probably a quarter of my torso is covered in gauze and betadine. I dozed, which was broken up by sleep, which was often interrupted by dozing. I had pasta for a late dinner. My appetite is healthy.
We go for our first checkup on Wednesday, where I’ll ask the doctor more questions, including “Will the titanium plate in my shoulder set off medal detectors?”
