In an early morning mental fog I walked through the automatic double doors at 6 a.m. into the Outpatient Surgery unit. The officials got all the info I own into the computer and sent me back to my cubby to get out of my clothes into the bozo “gown,” have the R.N. put needles into my hand, answer the doctor’s questions, and wait.
I was then rolled through more automatic double doors into the cold-as-a-coffin surgical room that was lit up like the Jack Nicolson’s house in The Shining, asked to roll off the bed and onto my stomach on a platform the size of a surf board for the imminent pain block. I was instructed to put my arms in these plastic wings jutting off the surf board but I had to ask where my head went. They brought a pillow, I put my head onto it, and the lights went out. Like being in Carlsbad Caverns when the ranger makes everyone sit down and she turns out the lights. Eeeegads.
I got the block, which I have no memory of, was wheeled back out the swinging doors to my cubby, which I have no memory of, got my clothes back on, which I have no memory of (but I don’t think it was romantic like in the movies), and was plopped into a wheelchair to wait for my husband to pick me up, which I have no memory of.
On the cusp of consciousness, I heard a nurse say to the R.N. in charge of me, “You need to talk to this woman. I asked her if she had someone at home to look after her, and she told me ‘the cat.’ What if she falls?”
Then the lights faded again. I slept most of the day and didn’t remember hearing the nurse’s comment until the feeling in my right leg began returning.
So, I spent the evening remembering what she said I said, which I have no memory of, and snickering.
I invite you to watch our new black cat, Pumpkin Pie, attacking Gaspard and Lisa on Disney Jr.