The Surgery – Part II: The Day Of

After a few brief hours’ dozing the Friday night before surgery, I got up around 4:45am and showered for my surgery – an ice cold shower. I must say, a cold shower is no way to start the day when you’re going in for major surgery. So much for the Providence Inn. I packed my bags.

At 5:35 my cab arrived and took me up the hill to Swedish Medical Center – First Hill. It was still dark outside when I limped through the front door at 5:40, hauling my luggage. My back was still out from the discogram. I wasn’t sure where to go. There wasn't a soul in sight.

I wandered around the huge lobby until saw a woman behind a window in a little room. I ventured over, and sure enough, she was the right person to check me in. She was fascinated that I live in NYC, so we chatted about that a lot. When I asked what she thought I was paying in rent, her first guess was like$1200 or $1500. She about fell out of her chair when she found out I was paying twice that.

She and another nice lady took me in a wheelchair up to my room in the new wing on the 5th floor. I was amazed at the beautiful surroundings. The artwork in this place was museum-quality. This was one nice hospital.

Things moved very quickly after that. I was told to put a gown on. One person after another came in my room for various activities. Someone took my vitals. Another took my medical history. Someone weighed me. Another inserted an IV in my right arm. This went on for a while, with everyone moving at a fast clip like little worker bees. Thank god I had the presence of mind to unpack and get a few of my things set up within reach of the bed, because I would not have had time later.

I was rolled into a huge pre-op room in my bed where a lively anesthesiologist came over to talk with me, saying my anesthesiologist had not come in yet. Nice guy. Dr. Schwaegler eventually showed up to chat with me, and later my anesthesiologist showed up and inserted the epidural IV in my lower back. More fun with lidocaine, needles, and such. (Have I mentioned I hate needles?) It was the last painful procedure I was to have done for a while, so I was relieved when the epidural was in. It was there to stay for the next few days.

Finally, around 8:00am, I was rolled into a small green operating room and parked. There was lots of equipment all around - not as orderly as you see on medical TV shows. But there was barely enough time for me to even look around and check the place out. Few words were spoken. I expected someone to say something like, “Now count back from 10. . . ,” but not a word was said. I didn't even see my doctor before someone put a mask over my face within a minute of my arrival. That’s the last thing I remember until sometime after 1:00pm when I found myself awake in a huge, open space known as the recovery room. I think I was there for 30 minutes. I don't remember.

My next memory is being back in my private room. A new, larger IV had been inserted behind my left thumb and was slightly painful. The old IV in the right arm remained, for emergencies. Apparently it wasn't big enough, so they had to put the larger needle in.

I was hooked up to a morphine drip – via the epidural – and given a button that I could push (at most) once every eight minutes for another dose. The IV in the back of my hand was hooked up to a bag of clear liquid. I had a catheter tube in my bladder, and one of those annoying plastic oxygen hoses up my nostrils. That thing drove me nuts. I couldn’t wait to take it out.

Other than the fat needle in the back of my left hand, I had zero pain. I was exhausted and sleep-deprived. All I wanted to do was go to sleep. I mean, I desperately needed sleep. But that wasn’t going to happen.

You'd think that they'd want you to sleep. You know, to heal. But no-o-o-o-o-o-o. . . .