The Second Time Around

A couple of months ago I decided that after 10 years with a useless lump in my chest – the battery pack for a failed brain surgery to address the Parkinson’s disease the doctors thought I had at the time, only to find that brain surgery had no effect, so consequently they changed the diagnosis – that the discomfort the lump caused me on a daily basis was worse than the prospect of having it removed.

So I returned to my rock star brain surgeon and scheduled the procedure. (I suppose “procedure” sounds better than “we’re going to cut into your flesh and cross our fingers that everything will go okay and you won’t come down with staph or the Corona Virus or something else lurking around this unhealthy place.”)

Dr. Rock Star assured me that this was very minor, very routine; it would take him about 15 minutes to do. That sounded good to me, so we put the thing on the calendar.

But first I had to get a bunch of tests done, which took me about a week to accomplish. I always love it when they draw my blood, because I am a “difficult stick” – it often takes the most skilled phlebotomist two or three times to find a viable vein and get the needle into it. (Lately they have been going for the low-hanging vein, which happens to be in my hand, which is hands down – the position they put you in to do this, by the way – the most painful way to go.)

So after jumping through all the hoops, including the predictable paperwork screw-ups, the big day finally arrived. I had to check in at 8 a.m. for a 10 o’clock surgery; they told my wife I would be ready for pickup around 2:30. I’m not that great at math, but by my calculations, Dr. Rock was in the mix a whopping 3.8% of the time I was at the hospital that day. In fairness, the good Dr. did have a full schedule that day, including some real, live, major surgery stuff – but he also had a staff of about 10 people helping him.

You’ve probably been through the same kind of thing yourself, and thus far I would say I’m not an expert (thank goodness). One of the questions they asked during the pre-op was, “Spell WORLD backwards.” I think I got it right, despite the fact that having three consonants at the end of the word made it a little tricky. Turns out they do that to make sure you can, because they are supposed to ask the same question of you when you wake up, evidently to make sure that they didn’t leave some gray matter on the operating room floor. (Nobody asked me the question after the surgery, however, which was a real letdown, considering that I studied very hard.)

Well, the rest of the story is, they had to do the procedure again a month later because the wound didn’t heal properly — it looked like they never took the thing out in the first place. The doctor said that was “weird,” which is a real confidence-builder. One good thing about the do-over was that I knew the drill: what to do, where to go, what not to bring. (I even studied WORLD a little more to make sure I didn’t blow it, just in case.)

The procedure itself went off without a hitch, but I definitely felt like I had the B Team beforehand. (Speaking of hand, that’s where the intubator went without even checking further up. What’s more, she was having a lot of trouble, to the point where she said, “I’m going to try it one more time before I call somebody else in” – another real confidence-builder.)

So here I sit, the day after the surgery, unable to bathe or drive, but alive and relatively pain-free, other than a little soreness. The doctor told me it was scar tissue, which he removed; he assured me that this time the wound would heal properly and it will look like nothing had ever happened.

We’ll see.