Surgery day
It's early in the morning Wednesday, February 23, 2005. Kathie and I have risen early, showered and dressed, and gotten ready to leave for the hospital. Today is the day I am having gastric bypass surgery and I'm scared.
The journey to this point reminds me of driving across Colorado. At the age of 17, following graduation from high school, I drove from Cleveland to Denver to visit a former teacher and his wife--my breaking-the-bonds-of-home, summer-before-college road trip.
Never having been to Colorado before, I drove across the states in succession, arriving at the Kansas/Colorado state line expecting to see mountains ahead of me. Crossing into Colorado, the plains continued and there was no sign of mountains in the distance. It was only after more driving that, in the distance, I finally saw the Rockies. Upon arrival in Denver, I was greatly surprised to learn the city was in the "flatlands" just east of the foothills. In my mind, I had always pictured Denver being nestled between mountains.
Denver--the mile-high city--was a lot higher in elevation than my home near Cleveland, which is roughly 600 feet above sea level. Traveling across the country, nothing indicated I had climbed nearly 5,000 feet. Sure, there had been ups and downs as I drove through Indiana, Illinois, Missouri and Kansas, but they were gentle hills.
My weight gain was very similar. A pound or two here or there, belt-loosening at Thanksgiving and Christmas, new pants one size bigger than the last ones--but nothing to indicate I would double in size and become more than 200 pounds overweight. More than 30 years after that trip to Colorado, here I was, preparing for the first open surgery of my life.
Arriving at St. Vincent Charity Hospital in the cold darkness of a February morning, Kathie and I walked briskly to the hospital entrance, a biting Lake Erie wind coaxing us to hurry along. After joining other surgical patients in the admitting center, we were taken to the third floor. I changed into a hospital gown while Kathie waited. Next I was told to lie down on a gurney and a disposable surgical cap was placed on my head. It looked hilarious and made both Kathie and me laugh. The laughter helped the tears, as I was having dreadful thoughts about not surviving the surgery. From my mother, I guess I inherited a sense of the morose, always thinking the worst would happen to me. That way, if it didn't happen, things came out better than I expected.
Kathie and I had a long, tender goodbye before they wheeled me into the surgery anteroom. I no longer had my eyeglasses, so the room and all the faces were literally a blur. The anesthesiologist came over to introduce himself, someone started an IV in my right hand and other surgical assistants all busied themselves with preparatory work. All the while, I prayed the "Hail Mary" repetitively.
My surgeon, Dr. Indukumar Sonpal, arrived shortly thereafter. Impeccably dressed in a stylish suit as always, Dr. Sonpal greeted me and explained what would be happening. He then found out that the patient beyond the curtain to my right was a friend of a friend, admitted for some type of intestinal blockage. Dr. Sonpal, ever the comedian, poked his head around the curtain and announced he had arrived for the patient's vasectomy. That helped break the tension for me.
An anesthesiologist named Rocky came over to me and told me I would be intubated for surgery. Once the surgery was over, he would need me to acknowledge him by squeezing his finger. We talked about it for a minute until he was certain I understood I'd have a tube stuck in my throat until I squeezed. I promised to squeeze.
Next, Rocky explained that he was going to give me a drug that would relax me. He said it was quite potent, so I quipped "It's really good shit, huh?" Rocky laughed and confirmed it would be good shit. He injected it into the IV tube and went about his business while I continued saying my "Hail Marys."
"Joe! Joe! Squeeze my finger."
Groggy from the anesthetics, fading in and out of alertness, I must have squeezed Rocky's finger, as I have no recollection of being intubated. After Rocky had injected the powerful drug into my IV, I had drifted off quickly. The next memory is after surgery was done, with Rocky instructing me to squeeze his finger. From there, I drifted in and out again.
Kathie told me I was out of it while in the recovery room and I must have been. I remember people coming and going, hovering over me, instructing me to do this or that, such as click the trigger for more morphine if I felt pain. I didn't feel any significant pain just laying there, just a heaviness on my abdomen, which I later learned was an elastic binder pulled tight around me to assist in closing the incision site. On top of my belly, the nurses had also placed a heavy pillow for me to squeeze whenever I coughed.
Once I was assigned a regular patient room in the bariatric wing, the anesthetics faded, I became alert and learned the surgery had been very successful. My gastric bypass was done and I could start the long drive back down from Denver to Cleveland.
The journey to this point reminds me of driving across Colorado. At the age of 17, following graduation from high school, I drove from Cleveland to Denver to visit a former teacher and his wife--my breaking-the-bonds-of-home, summer-before-college road trip.
Never having been to Colorado before, I drove across the states in succession, arriving at the Kansas/Colorado state line expecting to see mountains ahead of me. Crossing into Colorado, the plains continued and there was no sign of mountains in the distance. It was only after more driving that, in the distance, I finally saw the Rockies. Upon arrival in Denver, I was greatly surprised to learn the city was in the "flatlands" just east of the foothills. In my mind, I had always pictured Denver being nestled between mountains.
Denver--the mile-high city--was a lot higher in elevation than my home near Cleveland, which is roughly 600 feet above sea level. Traveling across the country, nothing indicated I had climbed nearly 5,000 feet. Sure, there had been ups and downs as I drove through Indiana, Illinois, Missouri and Kansas, but they were gentle hills.
My weight gain was very similar. A pound or two here or there, belt-loosening at Thanksgiving and Christmas, new pants one size bigger than the last ones--but nothing to indicate I would double in size and become more than 200 pounds overweight. More than 30 years after that trip to Colorado, here I was, preparing for the first open surgery of my life.
Arriving at St. Vincent Charity Hospital in the cold darkness of a February morning, Kathie and I walked briskly to the hospital entrance, a biting Lake Erie wind coaxing us to hurry along. After joining other surgical patients in the admitting center, we were taken to the third floor. I changed into a hospital gown while Kathie waited. Next I was told to lie down on a gurney and a disposable surgical cap was placed on my head. It looked hilarious and made both Kathie and me laugh. The laughter helped the tears, as I was having dreadful thoughts about not surviving the surgery. From my mother, I guess I inherited a sense of the morose, always thinking the worst would happen to me. That way, if it didn't happen, things came out better than I expected.
Kathie and I had a long, tender goodbye before they wheeled me into the surgery anteroom. I no longer had my eyeglasses, so the room and all the faces were literally a blur. The anesthesiologist came over to introduce himself, someone started an IV in my right hand and other surgical assistants all busied themselves with preparatory work. All the while, I prayed the "Hail Mary" repetitively.
My surgeon, Dr. Indukumar Sonpal, arrived shortly thereafter. Impeccably dressed in a stylish suit as always, Dr. Sonpal greeted me and explained what would be happening. He then found out that the patient beyond the curtain to my right was a friend of a friend, admitted for some type of intestinal blockage. Dr. Sonpal, ever the comedian, poked his head around the curtain and announced he had arrived for the patient's vasectomy. That helped break the tension for me.
An anesthesiologist named Rocky came over to me and told me I would be intubated for surgery. Once the surgery was over, he would need me to acknowledge him by squeezing his finger. We talked about it for a minute until he was certain I understood I'd have a tube stuck in my throat until I squeezed. I promised to squeeze.
Next, Rocky explained that he was going to give me a drug that would relax me. He said it was quite potent, so I quipped "It's really good shit, huh?" Rocky laughed and confirmed it would be good shit. He injected it into the IV tube and went about his business while I continued saying my "Hail Marys."
"Joe! Joe! Squeeze my finger."
Groggy from the anesthetics, fading in and out of alertness, I must have squeezed Rocky's finger, as I have no recollection of being intubated. After Rocky had injected the powerful drug into my IV, I had drifted off quickly. The next memory is after surgery was done, with Rocky instructing me to squeeze his finger. From there, I drifted in and out again.
Kathie told me I was out of it while in the recovery room and I must have been. I remember people coming and going, hovering over me, instructing me to do this or that, such as click the trigger for more morphine if I felt pain. I didn't feel any significant pain just laying there, just a heaviness on my abdomen, which I later learned was an elastic binder pulled tight around me to assist in closing the incision site. On top of my belly, the nurses had also placed a heavy pillow for me to squeeze whenever I coughed.
Once I was assigned a regular patient room in the bariatric wing, the anesthetics faded, I became alert and learned the surgery had been very successful. My gastric bypass was done and I could start the long drive back down from Denver to Cleveland.
posted by Joe Wollet at 8:25 AM
2 Comments:
Wow, Dad, this is a really good entry. I especially like your elevation extended metaphor. I think you are a great writer and should persue journalism or writing as a career.
I'm still impressed by your metaphor--it was my inspiration for the puzzle idea on my blog.
I'm also still embarrassed by my misspelling "pursue."
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