On the road to recovery

Right after I learned I was going to have to get my gall bladder removed, it seemed everybody I ran into had already had that procedure done. Don’t worry, they all said. It’s not a big deal, and you’ll be back to normal within a day. They made it sound like it was no more serious than getting a filling or a pedicure.

Well, it turns out they are all evil lying liars who tell lies.

I was supposed to go see a surgeon for a consult tomorrow, which is Monday. But Thursday night I felt like the guy in Full Metal Jacket after his fellow recruits put bars of soap in pillowcases and beat him half to death. Then Friday morning on the way to work I noticed my fingers were turning yellow, and that seemed like a bad sign, so I turned the car around and headed back to the doctor.

He didn’t think that the yellow fingers were anything to worry about, but he did say the gallbladder needed to come out pronto, so he sent me to the hospital. I have always liked to brag that I’ve never had surgery and never had to spend a night in the hospital, but both of those streaks were about to end.

I was hopeful that I could make the best of it, since this little procedure was apparently not a big deal. At worst, I’d get a good-looking nurse to take care of me, give me a nice warm sponge bath or two, and I’d get a couple of nice meals and I could lounge around for a couple of days and do nothing without feeling guilty.

Not long after I got checked into my room, my nurse entered. Instead of Nurse Goodbody, I got a guy named Ronnie with a diamond stud earring in each ear and a Kid’N’ Play haircut. I made a mental note to hang a “No Sponge Baths!” sign on the door.

Ronnie picked up a chart and said, “OK, Mr. Williams, I see you’re here for a total left hip replacement.” I may have a couple of body parts I need to upgrade, but my hips are just fine. He saw the stricken look on my face, then looked down at the chart and said, “Whoops. Wrong chart,” and left the room. I got a magic marker and drew a circle on my abdomen and wrote “Cut here,” just so they’d be sure.

They wouldn’t let me eat, because they were going to do another ultrasound, so I got more miserable and cranky as the day went on. I got a lot of conflicting information – I wasn’t going to be allowed any food, I was going to get clear liquids, I could have a regular meal. Finally I got my family to sneak me in a chicken sandwich.

Saturday morning they came and got me and wheeled me into the operating room. That’s a daunting experience, no matter how “minor” the operation. You realize that your life is in the hands of people you know nothing about. How did I know the anesthesiologist didn’t stay up all night, snorting coke and drinking whiskey, before coming to work? What if my doctor was one of those fakes who made up everything on their resume’ and learned how to do surgery by watching reruns of M*A*S*H?

I didn’t have much time to worry about such things, because next thing I knew I was coming to in the recovery room. My belly felt as if someone was pressing a hot fireplace poker into it, but I was still too groggy to speak, so I just moaned really loud until a nurse came over and shot me up with something.

I got to go home later that afternoon. The doctor came by to see me but didn’t tell me much. I’m not implying that he was in a hurry because he had somewhere else to go, but I did find it strange that he was wearing a golf glove.

After I got home, I can describe my experience quite succinctly – pure agony. It hurts to blink. I’ve taken so many Percocets that Keith Richards called me and said, “Hey, take it easy, mate.” And for about the past 15 minutes, I’ve had a severe case of hiccups, which are a real treat just after abdominal surgery.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll begin to turn the corner and start getting back to normal. I have vowed that I will also start taking better care of myself, by eating healthier and losing weight and resuming exercise – as soon as I can get out of a chair in less than 10 minutes.