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Trip report (tl;dr, Oozing) |
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sawseech Canada. Feb 11 2010 20:31. Posts 3182 | | |
I had my shoulder scoped on Wednesday to repair anterior and posterior cuff damage. Here is my account of the experience:
In the days leading up to the surgery I found myself to be hypomanic. I suspect that it had something to do with the fear of imminent death. I send an email to pokerstars support, willing my funds to my brother in the event of my death and then proceed to deluge the forums and this blog with an array of hypomanic diarrhea, which amuses some and irritates others. I think that I wanted to leave something, anything of myself in the world that I could to help whoever might stumble upon it and derive any form of value from it that they could. This, without question, tells me that I want to have children, today.
I win a moderate sum of money, which means nothing to me. I've always found hypomania to be beneficial to my roll.
Wednesday arrives and I find myself to be strangely calm. Still hypomanic, I find it difficult to sleep. I force myself to take the rest. I wake up, cranky and sore. I shower thoroughly and get dressed and grab my knapsack. My brother drops me and my mother off at the hospital. The next few hours are rather boring. Multiple people ask me questions and I repeat myself time and again, deadpan. My mother is chattering incessantly and I ask her to please stop talking. She complies. I close my eyes and chimp down.
The surgical team arrives and I crack a smile for the first time today. My orthopedist is as bright and perky as ever. Amazing since she's completed, by my count, at least three procedures so far today. I remind myself to send truffles, if I live.
I check out the surgical assistant, and she's rock solid. A younger, slightly more enthusiastic version of my orthopedist. I'm helping to train this person to become the orthopedist to the next generation. Fantasic. I turn my eye to the anesthetist and I'm satisfied. He has the hands of a poker player, and I doubt that he's ever made a false move in his life.
I'll probably live.
A small bag of an obscure substance is attached to my IV.
My orthopedist and the anesthetist vanish like ghosts. Where did they learn to do that, at ninja school? Damn, this stuff is good.
The surgical assistant remains to walk me to the bay. My head is high, my steps steady. She's old hat, and has probably seen her fair share of running. They don't do that where I'm from. Didn't she get the memo?
They direct me to the table, and I comply. They hook me up to the stations, and I notice that the beeps are frequent. I breathe deep and easy, and the beeps slow.
Someone new arrives. This must be the gas man, because all activity has ceased and everyone is smiling. This must be in the manual. Send the patient off to lalaland with a smile. I play along, and remark that this is just another day at the office for me. The assistant replies that they're trying something new, that they're going to do this without anesthesia. I ask if it's the year 1400. She says no, it's 1500. I smile.
"This is the part where I go to sleep."
The mask comes down and I no longer exist, with a smile.
//
I have the shadow of a memory of words being spoken, joviality, and being physically manipulated.
I'm back, with a start. I gulp down the O2 like it's water. More. Must have more. I can't see anything. Oh, right, eyes facing in that direction. Fuck me. Where the fuck am I?
Oh, right. OK. I'm not dead, or at least I think that I'm not dead. If this is hell, then it's 4:05 and unusually cold for the season.
I play a game of tug-of-war with the nurse assigned to my station: I pull the oxygen mask down and cough up phlegm repeatedly and, for lack of recourse, swallow it, and then I forget to replace the mask. She puts the mask back in place. Repeat.
Eventually I regain what she must have regarded as consciousness. She titters around at the head of my bed. I make movements to try and sit up, which is hard because my right arm is mummified or entangled in some form of obscure swaddling, or so I think. She asks me if I want to sit up and I say yes but it comes out sounding more like urgghz. She takes that as an affirmative and elevates the head of the bed. I try to thank her, but end up saying erekro.
The nurse assigned to my station sits upright at the foot of my bed and observes me with what can only be described as the cool. I've noticed that my throat is sore. I'm still coughing up phlegm, but at reduced intervals, and now have the wherewithal to remember to replace the mask myself. Her gaze never falters and she makes no false moves.
It suddenly occurs to me that I'm thirsty, and so I ask if I could have a glass of water, please, only to then remember that all I'm permitted to have is ice chips, because I've been around the block a few dozen times. The other nurses laugh as one, but my assigned nurse merely cracks a brief smile. One of the others remarks that I've phrased my request interestingly. My assigned nurse offers ice chips and I accept. She runs off to the ice chips store and comes back and feeds them to me and they are delicious.
A few minutes pass and I begin to experiment with the concept of oxygen mask removal. My nurse makes no move to intercede, letting the now fully conscious me be the judge. She occassionally offers me the gentle reminder to breathe deeply, which I gladly take on the occasions that I have forgotten to breathe. At one point she informs me that my O2 stats are a little low, her words not mine, and so I put the mask on and concentrate on sucking oxygen for as long as I can stand it.
Eventually I find that I can successfully oxygenate on my own. My nurse stands up and makes a beeline for my right shoulder. I lean forward. She guides me to a slightly more forward position and checks what I now identify as compress bandages, a kilometer of tape, and a really snazzy jet-black sling. "There's some minor oozing," she says. I glance backwards, not to see anything in particular, but more to acknowledge the awesome fact that I have now oozed. I hrmm it, and she adds a couple more bandages and tapes it up nice and snug.
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| lets go fucking mental la la la la lets go fucking mental lets go fucking mental lala la la | |
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albonycee United States. Feb 11 2010 21:20. Posts 2749 | | | |
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| (insert stupid shit)aments | |
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RaiZ France. Feb 11 2010 21:57. Posts 1503 | | |
| | She asks me if I want to sit up and I say yes but it comes out sounding more like urgghz. She takes that as an affirmative and elevates the head of the bed. I try to thank her, but end up saying erekro. |
lol  |
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| Shin-il : Yeah it was very very very good for me too. Rekrul : YOU MOTHER FUCKING FUCKING SON OF A BITCH | |
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WastedGate United States. Feb 11 2010 22:30. Posts 667 | | |
why did you have surgery? what caused the damage? im interested because i just dislocated my shoulder walking down frozen apt stairs a few days ago and im worried about it being fucked up. |
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| wait wha? | Last edit: 12/02/2010 00:56 |
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StArCuE United States. Feb 11 2010 23:34. Posts 123 | | | |
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vegable United States. Feb 11 2010 23:42. Posts 2453 | | | |
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Silver_nz New Zealand. Feb 12 2010 01:00. Posts 5647 | | |
good writing, congrats on survival |
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TheTank United States. Feb 12 2010 02:52. Posts 830 | | |
this story was extremely funny. maybe b/c i'm drunk. I had a torn labrium and experience somewhat of the same thing. kinda. |
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| sigh...its like they are throwing money out of a helicopter and i dont have any hands...so i just break even. | |
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sawseech Canada. Feb 13 2010 07:49. Posts 3182 | | |
woodbrave
i think u r bp1
get a new psych and explain everything. olanzapine, risperdal, lamictal are very safe and innocuous treatments for exactly bp1 |
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| lets go fucking mental la la la la lets go fucking mental lets go fucking mental lala la la | |
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