Going in for Surgery

I had to be at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. I should have been happy about that. I would be the first one in, and hopefully I could go home shortly after. I wasn't nervous, and my father and brother accompanied me to the hospital. I was just calm like before a storm, keeping thoughts at bay, but how long would that last? And then the nurse called my name.

I followed her into a holding room. I did as she asked, switching into a gown, and then I took a seat, waiting for the intravenous. They were aware of my heart condition, but I was told the antibiotics would be given before surgery. Then, my family came in, and we patiently waited until it was my turn. I was still calm, actually sleepy, but I wasn't worried. And then I was put on a stretcher and wheeled down to another holding spot.

How could I fall asleep at a time like this? I should have been jittery, scared, but I wasn't. My family didn't seem concerned either. This was routine, and nothing to be worried about. So, we waited again, briefly met with the doctor, and then it was my turn.

I didn't even get to count to three. The anesthesiologist gave me something, and I was out. All I remember is waking up to a blurred scene of that holding space, where I was before the surgery. The doctor talked to me, and I heard every word. But I felt sick, and my body was shaking. Why was I trembling, and why couldn't I stop? It didn't help that my vitals were low, but I felt no pain. Yet.

I was wheeled back to where I began, another holding room. I was still shaking, but they thought I was cold. I remember 2004. I had gone into a Long Island hospital for a one-day procedure, and I was fine going in. Coming out was a different story, and I may as well have been convulsing. But the staff didn't seem concerned or my genius boyfriend, but the shaking finally stopped like it did now. But I felt sick not sick like I want my head in the toilet but just a sicken feeling, and they weren't about to release me like that.

An hour passed, and vitals were better. I downed two apple juice boxes. The nurse played Where's Waldo, looking for my father and brother, who seemed to have disappeared. Channels flipped by, but then I caught the Supernatural. And time slipped on by until they came to take me home.

This was my second surgery. In 1997, a bone spur was found on my left knee, and it had to be removed. I woke up with no tremors, but I was sick as a dog. Maybe it was the severe bout of flu shortly before, but I thought I was over it. Nobody helped me on my crutches, and I did land on the leg that was operated on more than once. So much for my boyfriend back then, another winner, and maybe that was why my wound hurt more. But the stitches were the worse, and I hope these stitches won't hurt that bad. There's no boyfriend now to hold me down, so I have to do my best to behave myself.

I really hope that this will be the last surgery I ever need or have. I'm barely in my thirties, and there is no telling what lies ahead. All I know is that anesthesia may not be my friend, and waking up as I did now and in 2004 has given me cause to be concerned. And my stomach needs a sign that says, "Mike Tyson was here."

It's a scary experience going in for surgery. You could be calm or jittery, but nothing really prepares you for what lies in wait. And you never know how you are going to wake up. It's not the doctor's fault or the nurses or the hospital. The body is a funny thing, and over time, it seems to develop quirks and quarks. But surgery is no joke, and if you need it like if they found a benign dermoid tumor that needed removal, you have to do it. But all you can really hope for is to wake up, recover, and start living your life.