When I was a little huffyboy and was getting ready to
have my tonsils removed, I was given a copy of “Curious George Goes to the
Hospital”. It was a great introduction for me as to what to expect at the
hospital but mostly it made me excited for the popsicles I would get when it
was all over. Spoiler alert: They don’t give you popsicles for knee surgery.
Bobbi, my next door neighbor, volunteered to be my driver
and caretaker for the day so I could completely focus on crying and whining
about my torn meniscus. On the way to the hospital I shared my deepest fears
about hospitals and pain and childhood injustices. She was such a good listener
and really calmed me with her understanding nods and smiles. When I told her where
we needed to park at the hospital, she pulled an ear phone out of her ear and asked, “What
did you say?” What a kidder.
Natalie, the surgical center receptionist, met Bobbi and
me very politely. With a friendly smile, she asked me to fill out a medical
history form. After filling out the form and detailing allergies and mental
issues and seizures, I asked Natalie if she had anything for writer’s cramp. I
noticed a sign on the counter offering interpreters. I asked for a German interpreter.
Natalie explained that German did not seem to be my native language. I pointed
out that the sign said nothing about that requirement. She laughed a polite
laugh that told me I was not going to get an interpreter. Then she sweetly
handed me a card with her name at the top and very nicely asked me to answer
the questions on the card and place the completed card in a box. It was an
evaluation of her services. I wrote that I did not feel Natalie took my request
for an interpreter seriously and turned the card in. It helped take the edge
off the disappointment I was feeling.
Next I was heighted and weighed. The weighing part was
fun. I only weighed 93 pounds on their scale. There was a kg after the number.
Not sure what that means, but I know I like the hospital ‘kg’ scale a lot better
than the one I have at home!
The doctor was an hour behind schedule. This wasn’t
typical of the Dr. Greg Hicken with whom I have ridden many mountain bike
trails in Utah. One of my favorite “Dr. Greg” stories was one where I had
returned to the parking area after wimping out on a hard ride and I waited for
the rest of the hard-core group to return. First back was Greg, by himself.
After about 5 minutes of chatting, all the rest of the riders appeared in a
group. In the ensuing discussion about why he got back so soon, this guy who I
was today trusting to use his best judgment while cutting my knee apart
explained, “The sun was in my eyes and I couldn’t see which way the trail went,
so I just guessed. I guess I made some good guesses today.” I just hoped that
the bright surgical lamps didn’t get in his eyes today…
When the time finally came, the anesthesiologist had me
sign some paper that said something about him trying his best to keep me alive
and then he wheeled my bed down to the operating room. This was apparently a
part of his job he thoroughly enjoyed, as he had orderlies scrambling out of
the way and told me to make ambulance sounds for the corners. When we entered
the brightly lit, temperature-challenged operating room, the anesthesiologist
said, “Welcome to our meat locker”, in reference to the coldness I assumed.
Then he told me there was a side of “beef” hanging in the corner, out of my
sight. I asked if it was the last patient. No one laughed. I felt the beginning
of a scream…
The kind anesthesiologist put a mask over my mouth and
told me it would make me feel a little loopy. I assured him no one would notice
any difference. I heard Dr. Greg agree with me somewhere in the background. While
the kind doctor was sharpening knives on a grindstone, he asked about the music
playing through the overhead speakers. It was something by Brad Paisley. I said
I liked his song about fishing. The music changed and the last thing I remember
was singing along with everyone in the room, “…I’mmmmm gonna miss her!!”, my
favorite part of one of my favorite songs. Dark mist enveloped the meat locker
as the blue-clad people gathered around my bed. As consciousness slipped away,
I remembered the nurse asking earlier if it was my left knee that was getting
cut open. I had answered, “Right”. I desperately want to tell her that I meant
to say “Yes!” but all the lights went out…
I remember the sweet sounds of a long forgotten lullaby
being sung to me as I awoke… Then more clarity came and I realized it was a
nurse telling me something that I did not understand. Then I reached as far as
I could and was able to feel my leg and was relieved to find it had not been
amputated. The nurse slapped my hand and told me to keep my hands off the
person next to me. After a few minutes of delusion and disorientation in the
recovery room, I was wheeled back to where I started and to where Bobbi was waiting
patiently for me. The nurses made me drink water and then get up and walk
around on crutches before they would let me go. I heard some of the nurses
taking bets on how far I would get down the hall before I fell. It appears Dr.
Greg had been sharing stories about my mountain biking ineptitude. I think the
dark-haired nurse in green won the pool because she cheered the loudest when I
lost control near the cool “kg” scale.
After a friendly parting by Natalie (she hadn’t seen my
survey answers yet) and a high five from the dark-haired nurse in green, I got
the obligatory wheelchair ride to the car and away we drove. Curious George
would have been proud.
