Wow, this week was a dozy, and it went entirely too quickly. I had surgery early on Tuesday morning after getting my work for my client auto-mated, and providing a good 53 paged document on how to do everything from configure the system to the database schema for the tables involved in the process. I was hoping there wouldn’t be a problem, but in case there was I wanted to be able to let them cover it.
I got the news about Matt early Sunday afternoon, and by late evening it was flooding over the local news stations. I started getting call after call from friends and family asking what I knew, or what I was going to do. Apparently I’m on some weird Matt watch for some of them as they think I’m going to overreact or do something stupid. I like to think I’ve matured over the years and am able to deal with these things a little better than I’m given credit for in most cases.
So I get to the hospital on Tuesday at 6am and doesn’t it figure that they ask you be there no later than 6am, and they don’t even open until 6am. So after sitting in the car for another ten minutes waiting around for them to open the doors I start thinking about the day. Man, hurry up and wait.
I did all the paperwork they asked for, paid my 200$ deductible, and then they lead me back into the prep room. I was asked to undress completely down to my socks. For knee surgery I’m not sure what going totally nude will accomplish, so I ask “even my under-roos?”, and the nurse confusedly looks at me. She then looks over at another nurse and asks “Hey, <name I can’t remember> did they ever change the policy on underwear?” The other lady said no, and Barb, my nurse, told me she never understood it either but no underwear. That throws out that whole saying your mothers used to say about always wearing fresh underwear in case you have to go to the hospital. Doesn’t matter they always make you take it off anyway it seems.
So I’m getting IV’d and hooked up all the while a few nurses come by asking me about Matt. My mom apparently is a chatty Kathy and let it slip I’d been friends with Matt. So everyone comes over and lumps condolences on me and asked questions about Matt, like how I knew him, what he was like, whether he was nice or a hard-ass. It was a little surreal to be getting surgery and fielding these questions.
A little time later they start to hook me up to this dripper machine. They take the IV, wrap it into this machine, and it starts pumping drugs at a certain interval. Unfortunately I got the broken one that wouldn’t snap at the bottom, and instead of pumping fluids it started pumping AIR. Yes, air, the stuff that when in your blood stream kills you. It kept beeping, and beeping with the alarm that there is air in the IV line. The dang thing pumped a lot of bubbles into the line. My mom, who was sitting next to me at the time, started counting them. I lost track after she passed 12 and another nurse came over because of the problems. Barb just started work after her brother died so she was just back from that, the machine was broke, and it was still 6:30am. Poor girl was having a week like mine, except I’d imagine harder because she works long hours on her feet.
They ended up changing out the machine for a new one that finally started pumping IV fluids instead of air into me. I did get a wee bit of a static sharp head ache afterwards, but that could have been my imagination. I was starting to get doped up at that point. I realized after a few moments that when IV machines arnt pumping fluids into you that your own body starts pumping fluids back out. That was so weird. I guess it wouldn’t have been so bad if the IV went in right the first time. Apparently the IV got snagged upon my vein in a spot where to veins came together. So I got stuck a few times. Mike, god bless him, was pretty good about getting it done quickly. I’m still convinced getting an IV in the hand is far less painful than in the arm. I don’t bend the top of my hand nearly as much as I do at the elbow is how I look at it.
So a little time passes as they’re coming over, shaving my knee, talking to me about everyone going to be there, and my parents warn them that my last meal was really spicy. I think the last words out of my moms mouth was ‘he ate hot sauce’ to the anesthesiologist lady. She looks at me, smiles, and says that’s how she likes her food too.
I then get wheeled back into the operating room where there is a large cross shaped bed waiting for me. I pull myself onto the new table and they begin strapping me down. Did you know they put a seat belt on you? I laughed, then asked whether they thought it was protection in case I was a DWI, driving a cart while intoxicated with knock out drugs. One person snickered, but I’m going to blame my lack of funny on the fuzzy headed drug. Speaking of which, they injected something shortly before the were going to gas me that started to burn inside me. It felt like a million fire armed centepides crawling inside of my heart, and inside my brain. It was crazy it burned so much inside my head it felt terrible. I heard my heart rate rising and one nurse asked me whether I’ve ever had a panic attack, which I have not, and then they quickly gassed me. Next thing I know I’m trying to fit my bandaged leg into a car. I’m tall enough as is so trying to fix a fixed leg brace into a car that doesn’t fit me to begin with just was crazy enough.
Long story short I spent the entire week in bed with ice on my leg. Short of physical therapy last Thursday was the first day I was really up that week. They undid my bandages and it looked as if I was smuggling a bag of oranges under my knee cap. Buldges everywhere I tell you. The next day I had a doctors appointment that a friend of mine too me too. I wont get into that one very much since I waited almost two hours to see the doctor for five minutes for him to go ‘oh it looks fine, doing good’ without even having looked at my leg one second.
So here it is Monday I’m back in the office with second office chair from my cube, crutch sticking through the arm holds, and my leg placed in the top portion of the crutch heel against the armpit pad. It’s holding my foot up, at least it is until the chair tips the rest of the way, while I toil over these programs. It’s still terribly sore, swollen, I’m off my pain pills, and there is no ice to be seen. I can’t even drive yet. So needless to say it’s going to be a long week.