It was Wednesday morning and I’d been in the hospital for two days, since the doctor scheduled to perform my surgery had had a more pressing emergency than mine on Monday afternoon.
That morning, I was brought a “liquid breakfast,” which consisted of clear juices, gelatin, and clear chicken broth. I was told that the reason for this was so that I wouldn’t be likely to vomit following surgery, which was to take place at noon, which meant I wouldn’t get lunch. However, shortly after I was finished with breakfast, DJ and another nurse came and got me, bed and all, and moved me to Pre-Op. When I asked why, DJ said that the person scheduled for surgery ahead of me had been mistakenly allowed to eat a solid meal.
In Pre-Op, I was connected to a number of items: an automatic blood pressure cuff, a doo-dad for my finger that judged my blood oxygen levels and another IV, of water, I think. After a while, I was wheeled into the operating room and told to shift myself onto the operating table, which was very cold. They draped a warm blanket over my body, except for my leg and placed a mask over my face, telling me to count backwards from ten. I don’t remember which number I reached before blankness overtook me.
When I returned to reality, I found myself shaking violently and staring up at a lighting fixture that had a decidedly futuristic look to my drug-addled brain.
A nurse noticed that I was awake and approached me to feel my toes (urgh, I still hate it when people do that).
“Am I on the star-ship Enterprise,” I asked feebly, still shaking like the proverbial leaf.
“No,” the nurse replied in a no-nonsense I’ve-heard-everything kind of voice, “This is the Recovery Room.”
I looked back up at the light fixture and, for some reason, I disbelieved her. “Are you sure this isn’t the star-ship Enterprise?” I asked. I’m not sure exactly what I expected at that point.
“No, this is Recovery,” she repeated and, evidently bored with this game now, wandered away.
Then I heard a noise I hadn’t expected to hear. Someone nearby was throwing up into a kidney-shaped bowl. On my other side, things looked decidedly non-futuristic. Nearly half the room wasn’t in use. There was a clock on the wall and everything and the entire room was dark except for one light near the person throwing up and the one over my bed. Slow day, I suppose.
“I guess this is the Recovery Room,” I said to myself ALOUD. Not a peep from the nurse’s station, wherever in the room that was. I decided to concentrated on not shaking. Looking down at my right leg, I discovered that it was covered in layers of gauze and fabric tape that the doctor called a brace. Seriously, though, it was just a bandage. When I was able to stop shaking, I was wheeled back upstairs to my room, where I remained for two more days.
Have you ever been in surgery? If so, did you wake up afterward with the stupids, like I did? If not, was there ever a moment in your life where you seemed to have the stupids? Tell me! I want to read YOUR story!