Post by Vorpal Fennec on Apr 5, 2017 0:04:56 GMT -5
"What's it like?"
The question, so frequently asked in hushed tones or else in nervously worded PMs or TGs, is understandably spawned from morbid curiosity. During my tenure on NS, I've discovered that the question is pregnant... they ask because they have a parent or older family member going through it; they ask because they've just been diagnosed themselves; they ask because they're interested in medicine; they ask because they're afraid of the unknown. I answer because my experiences might help put that person at ease.
"What's it like, going into surgery?"
Every person is different, and so every surgical situation is different. Rather than tell you things that might not pertain to your particular need, I'll share what it's like for me:
I don't fret over the procedures. Nobody has time for that. The surgical date carries the same mundane flavor as "Coffee with Mary, 2 PM". In my mind, that's the day everyone gathers for a party that I will most certainly sleep through. All the fun folk will be there... my surgeon, the nurses, the anesthesiologist, the techs.
The day before, I adjust my diet. No food after midnight, you know. Hydrate so they can find a vein. I tend to crawl into bed earlier than normal. Everyone should get a good night's sleep before attending the three-ring circus!
"Good morning," I present myself at the surgical desk the following morning. I'm chipper though I look like hell. No makeup. No hair products. Baggy clothing more suitable for sleeping in than wearing in public (I've turned up in my ducky PJs before). All my jewelry is at home. The husfiend carries my ID and any other necessities.
She jots my name and calls Holding (this is the magic place where they physically prepare you).
I sit and wait. Sometimes I'll play Nibblers, or Magnetic Balls. I usually snap a waiting room photo for my friends. Sometimes, like today, they take me back immediately because I'm a "difficult stick".
My surgical nurse, Michelle, calls my name. I've had her before. We make small talk as we slip beyond card-key doors and into long, cold corridors. I'm shown to my bay, and Michelle gives me a few minutes to strip and slip on a gown and booties. The booties... I have a stockpile! Today's selection is grey, alas, as they're all out of brown. They don't fit properly and insist upon pooling at my ankles.
"Are you ready?" Michelle returns to my bay, my surgical chart clutched against her chest. The binder is a beast, but therein you will find all the old notes from all my prior surgeries.
I nod and crawl into the overly large bed. A tech drapes a warmed blanket over me and then "milks my finger" (a prick on the side to coax blood into a tiny vial) as Michelle begins her review. My allergies, my prior anesthetic reactions, my med list, my last meal time, my last period, am I ready for today? My anesthesiologist, Dr. C, arrives during the review, bringing it to a pause.
Dr. C is a tall and imposing man, Middle Eastern in heritage, with a no-nonsense accent. His presence unintentionally intimidates people. His eyes soften when he spots me. "You look familiar. Do you work here?" he jests.
"No, but I should pay rent," I crack my routine smile. The familiar waltz begins. "How'd I end up with you? You're brutal."
"I'm a masochist." He runs through his typical volley of questions. My allergies, my prior reactions, my sleep apnea, do I want a patch for nausea. I answer each in turn and then ask how his wife is doing. She had a baby a few months back.
The stern brute smiles. "She's doing fine, thank you for remembering." He slips his glasses from his nose. They sway on a silvery chain as he leans on the bedside table. "Looks like you're getting a power port."
I vigorously nod. I've awaited this day a long while. The port will forever strip away all the stresses I face when having even routine lab work done. Everything from this day forward will be done through that small site on my chest. The alternative is to endure multiple sticks, blown veins, and massive bruising. In fact, I'm nearly out of "good veins". I have one remaining in my hand. It's a finicky little shit but, out of all the sites, this is the one with the most cooperative valves. We won't compromise it with bloodwork today, ergo the "milking" process earlier.
"Do you think she'll hit it on the first try?" I tease.
He laughs and walks away. My nurse grunts and leaves to retrieve the correct IV set... the one provided is for an adult, but I require a smaller kit.
I'll spare you the nerve-wracking joy of Vein Hunt. My record is 13 stick attempts (the end result being the anesthesiologist himself inserting a line into my neck). Today only required 2 sticks.
"Does it draw?" I anxiously peer at my hand.
"Don't move, Auty." I think Michelle's held her breath the entire time.
"Does it flush? It does! I'm tasting saline!" Some people experience this taste, others don't. For me, at that moment, it's the most welcome taste in the whole world.
"It... it flushes!"
A cheer rings out in Holding.
I have a lengthy delay ahead of me. They've only brought me back to mitigate the whole "take an hour to find a spot" situation. I've delayed other people's surgeries before, causing my own surgeons to run over on their block of OR time. There's now plenty of time to slip a bonnet over my head and hook up all the electrodes. I do the most practical thing afterwards: I nap.
Someone nudges my shoulder. "Aut, you ready?" It's the nurse anesthetist, a beefy fellow with a smile that outshines the sun. I hear the bed's wheel locks release.
I've only got a view of what's overhead, though I can hear him and the technician's chatter. The ceiling tiles sweep by as we go, and the air begins to get much cooler. The operatory itself is frigid. These are kept cold in an effort to hamper bacterial growth, but also because the lights above me cause the staff to overheat. The voices echo in the large chamber. Even my own laugh sounds frightening loud. Human sounds mingle with the clatter from surgical trays and bleeps from equipment. They park my bed beside the table and I wiggle over.
There's not much to see from my vantage point. More overhead tiles. The tops of surgical cabinets. Huge, round lights which will be moved directly over me once we begin. There is a complete lack of scent in that room.
The nurse anesthetist's face, now covered by a mask, looms over me. "I'm going to give you something to relax you."
Relax me? Oh honey, I could fall asleep without it at this point. I'm... weird like that. I've placed my trust in these people. Though the air is cold, I can feel the warmth of their bodies as they lash my wrists and strap my body to the table. They chat with each other, and I recognize some of the terms from my own working experience in the medical field. All the while, my heartbeat plays out from a small device somewhere behind my head.
"Hey, you repainted the ceiling?" It's the last thing I remember saying, and I can't recall if anyone replied.
An alarm. It's loud. What is that? Why can't people stay out of my room when I'm sleeping? I know this sound. Oh, it's the...
"Deep breaths, Auty. Your O2 level is down."
Stupid pulse oximeter stuck to my ring finger has betrayed me! This always happens to me after surgery, so I'm not too worried. Hands appear and I squint at the nasal cannula being lowered onto my face. They won't release me from Recovery until my saturation hits the 90s. The sooner I wake up and return to normal, the faster that transition will happen. But-
"Hey," I try to lift my hand but its buried under warm blankets. "Hey. Shoulder hurts. Bad."
"Which?" a pretty nurse's face appears in my field of vision.
"Right. Rotator. Cuff. Damaged." Yeah, I'll eventually need surgery on that.
She nods and vanishes. I close my eyes, sighing a moment later as the alarm goes off again.
"Deep breaths, Aut!" She's returned. I feel a slight sting in my hand. Dilaudid, obviously. It has a special burning sensation. "We need to wait 20 more minutes."
This alarm/"breathe" dance goes on for what feels like forever. I float in and out of consciousness. It's not just the pain medication or the anesthesia. I have a metabolic disorder, and my body doesn't want to compensate for the stress its under. When I awake next, it's nearly 3:30. I've been in their custody since 9 AM.
I barely remember the ride from Recovery to the downstairs waiting area. I get in a twilight nap. When I awake, I see mostly ceiling tile. My nose tells me there's cranberry juice nearby, and the crinkling of plastic means graham crackers are at hand. This speculation is confirmed a moment later. The Husfiend's face appears over me. He's chewing. He's eating MY graham cracker.
"Bastard," I mutter. But he's being smart. The only way to get me to eat is to eat my food for me. It's my biggest annoyance. He lifts a square and pretends to put it in his mouth. I snatch it.
Patients are told to refrain from driving or making legal decisions after anesthetic. I totally understand why. Sitting here, right now, I can't recall getting dressed. I did dress, obviously, because I do recall tracing my finger over the pattern on my pants as we drove through town.
I looked at my phone not too long ago, and there's a few pictures of the IV in my hand.
"You took them," the husfiend laughs. "You wanted to commemorate the last time you'll ever have one."
I... don't remember doing that, but there's a video on the phone, too. I'm laughing my ass off and cracking jokes with the nurse. The picture is fuzzy and wobbly, with my hand and the IV dancing in and out of the frame. The hand looks like a meaty fist because it's so swollen.
I recall arriving at home, and wandering around in a stupor. We had roast beef for dinner, but I couldn't tell you what it tasted like. It was obviously good, because I had two helpings. I napped while watching Earth II on DVD. I napped upstairs in my room (propped up by pillows because my surgical site aches).
And here we are. I'm still groggy as fuck, and the site aches. The port is fine. The sliced and (presumably) stitched tissue protests its current state. I most likely won't recall writing this at all by tomorrow.
For those curious about a Bard Power Port:
A port really isn't all that scary. I'll have a "forever bump" on my chest. It doesn't "feel" like anything is in my vein or intruding into my heart. The skin around the insertion area aches, and touching it causes pain, but that will heal. It's just one more H+ thing in my life. I'll need to have it flushed monthly, as it contains a "seal lock" comprised of heparin and saline to prevent clots.
Would I recommend you get one if your doctor or surgeon advises it? Yes, especially if you are looking towards chemo treatments. (Mine is there for access rather than chemo).
And there you have it.
The question, so frequently asked in hushed tones or else in nervously worded PMs or TGs, is understandably spawned from morbid curiosity. During my tenure on NS, I've discovered that the question is pregnant... they ask because they have a parent or older family member going through it; they ask because they've just been diagnosed themselves; they ask because they're interested in medicine; they ask because they're afraid of the unknown. I answer because my experiences might help put that person at ease.
"What's it like, going into surgery?"
Every person is different, and so every surgical situation is different. Rather than tell you things that might not pertain to your particular need, I'll share what it's like for me:
I don't fret over the procedures. Nobody has time for that. The surgical date carries the same mundane flavor as "Coffee with Mary, 2 PM". In my mind, that's the day everyone gathers for a party that I will most certainly sleep through. All the fun folk will be there... my surgeon, the nurses, the anesthesiologist, the techs.
The day before, I adjust my diet. No food after midnight, you know. Hydrate so they can find a vein. I tend to crawl into bed earlier than normal. Everyone should get a good night's sleep before attending the three-ring circus!
"Good morning," I present myself at the surgical desk the following morning. I'm chipper though I look like hell. No makeup. No hair products. Baggy clothing more suitable for sleeping in than wearing in public (I've turned up in my ducky PJs before). All my jewelry is at home. The husfiend carries my ID and any other necessities.
She jots my name and calls Holding (this is the magic place where they physically prepare you).
I sit and wait. Sometimes I'll play Nibblers, or Magnetic Balls. I usually snap a waiting room photo for my friends. Sometimes, like today, they take me back immediately because I'm a "difficult stick".
My surgical nurse, Michelle, calls my name. I've had her before. We make small talk as we slip beyond card-key doors and into long, cold corridors. I'm shown to my bay, and Michelle gives me a few minutes to strip and slip on a gown and booties. The booties... I have a stockpile! Today's selection is grey, alas, as they're all out of brown. They don't fit properly and insist upon pooling at my ankles.
"Are you ready?" Michelle returns to my bay, my surgical chart clutched against her chest. The binder is a beast, but therein you will find all the old notes from all my prior surgeries.
I nod and crawl into the overly large bed. A tech drapes a warmed blanket over me and then "milks my finger" (a prick on the side to coax blood into a tiny vial) as Michelle begins her review. My allergies, my prior anesthetic reactions, my med list, my last meal time, my last period, am I ready for today? My anesthesiologist, Dr. C, arrives during the review, bringing it to a pause.
Dr. C is a tall and imposing man, Middle Eastern in heritage, with a no-nonsense accent. His presence unintentionally intimidates people. His eyes soften when he spots me. "You look familiar. Do you work here?" he jests.
"No, but I should pay rent," I crack my routine smile. The familiar waltz begins. "How'd I end up with you? You're brutal."
"I'm a masochist." He runs through his typical volley of questions. My allergies, my prior reactions, my sleep apnea, do I want a patch for nausea. I answer each in turn and then ask how his wife is doing. She had a baby a few months back.
The stern brute smiles. "She's doing fine, thank you for remembering." He slips his glasses from his nose. They sway on a silvery chain as he leans on the bedside table. "Looks like you're getting a power port."
I vigorously nod. I've awaited this day a long while. The port will forever strip away all the stresses I face when having even routine lab work done. Everything from this day forward will be done through that small site on my chest. The alternative is to endure multiple sticks, blown veins, and massive bruising. In fact, I'm nearly out of "good veins". I have one remaining in my hand. It's a finicky little shit but, out of all the sites, this is the one with the most cooperative valves. We won't compromise it with bloodwork today, ergo the "milking" process earlier.
"Do you think she'll hit it on the first try?" I tease.
He laughs and walks away. My nurse grunts and leaves to retrieve the correct IV set... the one provided is for an adult, but I require a smaller kit.
I'll spare you the nerve-wracking joy of Vein Hunt. My record is 13 stick attempts (the end result being the anesthesiologist himself inserting a line into my neck). Today only required 2 sticks.
"Does it draw?" I anxiously peer at my hand.
"Don't move, Auty." I think Michelle's held her breath the entire time.
"Does it flush? It does! I'm tasting saline!" Some people experience this taste, others don't. For me, at that moment, it's the most welcome taste in the whole world.
"It... it flushes!"
A cheer rings out in Holding.
I have a lengthy delay ahead of me. They've only brought me back to mitigate the whole "take an hour to find a spot" situation. I've delayed other people's surgeries before, causing my own surgeons to run over on their block of OR time. There's now plenty of time to slip a bonnet over my head and hook up all the electrodes. I do the most practical thing afterwards: I nap.
Someone nudges my shoulder. "Aut, you ready?" It's the nurse anesthetist, a beefy fellow with a smile that outshines the sun. I hear the bed's wheel locks release.
I've only got a view of what's overhead, though I can hear him and the technician's chatter. The ceiling tiles sweep by as we go, and the air begins to get much cooler. The operatory itself is frigid. These are kept cold in an effort to hamper bacterial growth, but also because the lights above me cause the staff to overheat. The voices echo in the large chamber. Even my own laugh sounds frightening loud. Human sounds mingle with the clatter from surgical trays and bleeps from equipment. They park my bed beside the table and I wiggle over.
There's not much to see from my vantage point. More overhead tiles. The tops of surgical cabinets. Huge, round lights which will be moved directly over me once we begin. There is a complete lack of scent in that room.
The nurse anesthetist's face, now covered by a mask, looms over me. "I'm going to give you something to relax you."
Relax me? Oh honey, I could fall asleep without it at this point. I'm... weird like that. I've placed my trust in these people. Though the air is cold, I can feel the warmth of their bodies as they lash my wrists and strap my body to the table. They chat with each other, and I recognize some of the terms from my own working experience in the medical field. All the while, my heartbeat plays out from a small device somewhere behind my head.
"Hey, you repainted the ceiling?" It's the last thing I remember saying, and I can't recall if anyone replied.
An alarm. It's loud. What is that? Why can't people stay out of my room when I'm sleeping? I know this sound. Oh, it's the...
"Deep breaths, Auty. Your O2 level is down."
Stupid pulse oximeter stuck to my ring finger has betrayed me! This always happens to me after surgery, so I'm not too worried. Hands appear and I squint at the nasal cannula being lowered onto my face. They won't release me from Recovery until my saturation hits the 90s. The sooner I wake up and return to normal, the faster that transition will happen. But-
"Hey," I try to lift my hand but its buried under warm blankets. "Hey. Shoulder hurts. Bad."
"Which?" a pretty nurse's face appears in my field of vision.
"Right. Rotator. Cuff. Damaged." Yeah, I'll eventually need surgery on that.
She nods and vanishes. I close my eyes, sighing a moment later as the alarm goes off again.
"Deep breaths, Aut!" She's returned. I feel a slight sting in my hand. Dilaudid, obviously. It has a special burning sensation. "We need to wait 20 more minutes."
This alarm/"breathe" dance goes on for what feels like forever. I float in and out of consciousness. It's not just the pain medication or the anesthesia. I have a metabolic disorder, and my body doesn't want to compensate for the stress its under. When I awake next, it's nearly 3:30. I've been in their custody since 9 AM.
I barely remember the ride from Recovery to the downstairs waiting area. I get in a twilight nap. When I awake, I see mostly ceiling tile. My nose tells me there's cranberry juice nearby, and the crinkling of plastic means graham crackers are at hand. This speculation is confirmed a moment later. The Husfiend's face appears over me. He's chewing. He's eating MY graham cracker.
"Bastard," I mutter. But he's being smart. The only way to get me to eat is to eat my food for me. It's my biggest annoyance. He lifts a square and pretends to put it in his mouth. I snatch it.
Patients are told to refrain from driving or making legal decisions after anesthetic. I totally understand why. Sitting here, right now, I can't recall getting dressed. I did dress, obviously, because I do recall tracing my finger over the pattern on my pants as we drove through town.
I looked at my phone not too long ago, and there's a few pictures of the IV in my hand.
"You took them," the husfiend laughs. "You wanted to commemorate the last time you'll ever have one."
I... don't remember doing that, but there's a video on the phone, too. I'm laughing my ass off and cracking jokes with the nurse. The picture is fuzzy and wobbly, with my hand and the IV dancing in and out of the frame. The hand looks like a meaty fist because it's so swollen.
I recall arriving at home, and wandering around in a stupor. We had roast beef for dinner, but I couldn't tell you what it tasted like. It was obviously good, because I had two helpings. I napped while watching Earth II on DVD. I napped upstairs in my room (propped up by pillows because my surgical site aches).
And here we are. I'm still groggy as fuck, and the site aches. The port is fine. The sliced and (presumably) stitched tissue protests its current state. I most likely won't recall writing this at all by tomorrow.
For those curious about a Bard Power Port:
A port really isn't all that scary. I'll have a "forever bump" on my chest. It doesn't "feel" like anything is in my vein or intruding into my heart. The skin around the insertion area aches, and touching it causes pain, but that will heal. It's just one more H+ thing in my life. I'll need to have it flushed monthly, as it contains a "seal lock" comprised of heparin and saline to prevent clots.
Would I recommend you get one if your doctor or surgeon advises it? Yes, especially if you are looking towards chemo treatments. (Mine is there for access rather than chemo).
And there you have it.
