“Who’s wine? What wine? Where the hell did I dine.” ~ Peter Frampton
I’ve Woke a few times confused about my whereabouts. This was different.
Anesthesia does strange things to a guy. Memory loss, paranoia, and hallucinations are all part of the trip.
I can honestly say that I know I had recall on waking up from the first two of the three surgeries but today, nothing. I don’t remember them at all. The third time they cut me, however, is a story in itself.
What’s Up Doc?
The conversation was confusing to say the least. My surgeon was telling me to decide if I wanted yet another surgery. He explained that an orthopedic specialist had said it needed a “cage” round my spinal chords for more support or I word likely never walk, or if I did it would not last. So, I needed the surgery but it was my choice. By this time my wife was reaching her tipping point. The back and forth had worn her out. She didn’t know who to believe. From my perspective, I had to believe Fassil. I was in too much pain to remain like this. I couldn’t walk. Hell, I couldn’t even be sat up without nearly passing out. So I elected to give him another stab at it (pun intended).
So under the knife I went a third time.
Just as in the first two times, they found more than they bargained for inside me. Once inside they discovered more remnants of my bones scattered throughout my back. They painstakingly removed them for six hours. But wait, there’s more! Fassil told me my nerves were everywhere they weren’t supposed to be. In his words, “the nerves were splayed out all over.” “this surgery was as complex a spine surgery as it gets.” So they picked out the bones, put the nerves back in place, set a cage in my spinal column, and again repaired my shredded thecal sac.
“It must’ve been a dream. I don’t believe where I’ve been.” Peter Frampton
The room was cold, dark and clinical. Florescent lights in rows made it seem even colder. There were curtains for walls and I was unable to move on my table. Women and men in lab coats and nurses uniform hurried about. I could here then speaking but I could not understand a word. I drifted in and out of awareness. Complete consciousness was just out of reach.
All these things along with the anesthesia played tricks on my mind. I thought I was being used in an experiment. Yes, I was “Jason Bourne” (without all the cool moves) and I didn’t want to be. I tried to speak, or to be heard. I’m certain it was barely audible. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to anymore.” I was afraid of what they had done. Again I plead, “I don’t want to be an experiment.” Seems strange now that I can even remember it when I’ve forgotten so much else. The lab coats scurried by and a nurse came over to me. “I don’t want to.” She said nothing, or I don’t recall anything she said. I’m not sure which is accurate.
What seemed like seconds but was probably hours later I was back upstairs in the familiar room I had occupied for the last seven days. Strange that I found comfort in that. It was, after all, a hospital room and I was in pretty bad condition.
On to my next step, recovering. The process was confusing and the paperwork and hoops I figuratively had to jump through was not happy. Suffice to say, the hospital and rehab clinic has rules about who they take and I was a prime candidate except for some minor things.
I’m hoping my writing about all this is informative or even helpful for some. Maybe you’ve been through it or something similar. Maybe someone you love is dealing with the pain and frustration of a serious injury as well. At any rate, if nothing else, you’ll understand what a person goes through in a traumatic life changing event.
See you in the next blog.
Tim
