The Surgery Day That Ran Away

The day before my surgery day I drank four bottles of Perrier water. I went out to a fabulous restaurant and, while my friend ate steak, I ate a blueberry slump that wasn't very slumpy, because I was supposed to get down something sweet. I didn't eat or drink anything after midnight. I got up at 4:20 a.m. I was my own captive audience for attending to my fantasies of fear. We drove to the outpatient clinic. They put me in the newest style of open-backed wear, took my blood pressure, weighed me, propped me up on a loungy chair and covered me with a white mattress-looking thing that had had warm air pumped into it. The surgeon came in with a packet of black marking pens and began to draw pictures on me. Just as the drawings were getting interesting, a nurse popped her head in and said, "Dr., the anesthesiologist would like to speak with you in the consultation room."

Poof, went the surgeon.

Woosh, woosh, went the warm air machine.

Shit, I thought. They're not going to do the surgery.

The anesthesiologist came in next. He said he wouldn't allow the surgery to go forward because I had experienced a traumatic event with my blood pressure the last time I had anesthesia, meaning this: they lost my blood pressure. Of course, I had warned the new surgeon about this event. Of course I had taken the event quite seriously at the time and had requested the records from that day but the then-surgeon had nicely slurred over the zero blood pressure trauma in writing, even though eight doctors swarmed into the room during that most stressful time and I awoke to the voice of a nurse saying, "Well, we haven't lost her, her heart is still beating. She's got a strong heart. She's a lucky woman."

Then the surgeon came in and both doctors began speaking at once, going over and over their reasons for not proceeding with the surgery. I finally looked at both of them and said, "I understand. You do not intend to do the surgery today or perhaps any day. I would now like you two to leave me alone. I want to get dressed."

They started in on the explanations again. Again I said, "I hear you clearly. But I do not want to look at either of you right now. I am not mad, just disappointed and I want to be disappointed in private. I want to get dressed. NOW."

I got dressed. The anesthesiologist came in again and sat down again. He said, "I can not find out what happened to you on that day from either the surgeon's notes or the anesthesiologist's notes but I won't take chances. You need to be in a hospital setting, with [something] going into an artery so that I can monitor your every second. We will make an appointment with you at St. Anthony's."

Whereupon I burst into tears. I did not know a hospital named St. Anthony's. I thought it was probably in Seattle. I didn't want to be in a hospital in Seattle.

"It's in Gig Harbor," he said. "You'll be spending the night. I began to perk up, although I still was disappointed. I haven't spent the night in a hospital since I had Kevin in the nineteen-sixties and, perverse creature that I am, I happen to be one who likes hospital food.

The nurse brought me out to my friend and my best friend, Christine, who had already been informed of my plight. They both looked at me sadly. I was crying. The doctors had begun their explanations again. They said them over and over again, same paragraphs after same paragraphs. Finally I said, "Look. I understand fully what you are saying. And I agree. I am crying because I am disappointed, which is a normal response. But I really think you are going over and over this material to make YOU feel better, not me."

Really, it was clear that neither of them knew quite what to say. This is where they should hire a good people-person like me to help them.

"This has never happened to me before," said my young surgeon. His face was flushed and he looked like he might cry. I reached out and tried to take his hand. The anesthesiologist nodded nicely and took off. My friends stood up and hugged me, assuring me that they knew I realized what was happening and that they also understood my degree of disappointment.

"I just wonder why, if you knew what had happened with Kay and the anesthesia before," Christine said, "you had not sent over her chart to the anesthesiologist BEFORE today so that he might review it THEN."

Entranced by her logic and her tone, I sat back, hoping she'd go on. "The anesthesiologist never sees the chart until the day of the surgery," said the surgeon.

"Don't worry, love, crying is normal," one of the nurse's said.


"Of COURSE it's normal," I said. "That's why I'm doing it. I'm a smart, normal person who thinks the doctors' call was a good call, but I am disappointed and therefore I am crying. It's absoLUTly normal to cry. And I intend to keep on crying until my tears make their way to a normal conclusion."

Christine smiled at me.

After being home a few hours, St. Anthony's Hospital called, with a surgery date for me. I go in next Thursday, July 1. Tomorrow I go in for the pre-op, although the clinic faxed the hospital every bit of information (EKG, blood panel, hair samples, DNA, just kidding, ha, ha) - - they had on me.

I asked my friend to take me somewhere for a glass of wine. I didn't care if he took me to my own living room or the local pub or a jail cell. Just so I could have a glass of wine.

I hate the way the medical profession (or any profession , for that matter, handles a normal physical function like crying. Crying? Don't worry, it's normal. You're already crying? Don't worry, it's normal, already. Still crying? Uh...you can stop now with your damn tears. They don't say that last part, but it's implied. A little crying is ok, a lot implies weakness, over-reaction, a tendency to be a victim, a martyr, a nutjob.

I'm no nutjob.

Today I tossed off a note to the surgeon, thanking him and the anesthesiologist (who attends to heart patients at Harrison) - for making what I felt was a rational and proper decision. I had tried several times to point out the day my blood pressure zeroed out, but nobody ever seemed to be impressed and the then-surgeon seemed downright flip.

Christine called, telling me to go by the book OXYGEN, but not to read it until AFTER my surgery. At the bookstore I found out that the author of OXYGEN is the head of anesthesia at a Seattle hospital AND a Bainbridge Islander.

"I don't intend to read it until AFTER my surgery,' I told the women behind the counter.
"Oh, I would read it BEFORE your surgery," said one of the women. "It just makes you want to Go Get Anesthesia!"

"Yes, but a child dies in it because of the anesthesia," said the other woman.

"Well, that's true," said the first woman.

"Uh-huh, I think I'll wait till AFTER," I said. The book is on my coffee table. I have an almost compulsive desire to read it today.

But I won't.

Last night I dreamed that The King of Surgery sat in his throne and spoke to me over a loudspeaker.

"Will you please take a number," he said. "Safeway's candles are on row 17."