In Sickness and in Health

I’m well aware of where those words come from but, no, this is not about marriage, weddings, etc. That will wait for some other day. No, this is about my (admitted) limited experience with the surgical side of the medical profession. I will also admit to being extremely pain averse and phobic about hypodermic needles. Those of you who have endured major surgery of any kind have my undying admiration for a) having endured it and b) having endured it with grace. My own experience is limited and I have been ridiculously healthy all my life. So my “coping mechanisms” are not very good and I turn into a big baby over anything medico-surgical. But I do try to laugh about it AFTER it’s over.

My earliest introduction to surgery was at the age of three when my pediatrician determined that my tonsils needed to go. I didn’t necessarily understand what was about to happen although I knew it had something to do with my throat because sore throats had led to the surgery. I was admitted to Cross County Hospital in Yonkers, co-located with the Cross County Shopping Center. The hospital is gone but the shopping center still exists. I was too young to be scared, although old enough to be afraid of hypodermic needles. I recall getting one (in the butt, for some reason) after being admitted. It may have been to make me a bit groggy but I don’t know. I have a thin memory of being laid on the OR table. They were still using ether as an anesthetic and just before they put the mask over my nose, I said, “Be careful with me,” and then I was out. I woke up to a severely hurting throat and the blessed news that my parents could take me home that night. Any of you who have ever heard Bill Cosby talk about his tonsillectomy will know that the big promise was: ice cream! That’s right. So when we got home did I get ice cream? Uh, no. But I did get chocolate pudding. And I clearly remember sitting on the couch in the living room eating it, wearing blue pajamas and paging through the latest Lionel toy train catalog. And my reward for being such a good, big boy? A Matchbox (anyone remember Matchbox cars when they actually came in what looked like a matchbox) car transporter with detachable car trailer and folding ramp.

Flash forward eleven years to Mark on the cusp of puberty. At the time, I had a large, brown benign mole on almost the point of my chin. My parents decided that the mole should be removed because it would get in the way of shaving, something that was in the offing as my voice deepened and hair began sprouting in “other” places. By this time, I had a full-blown phobia of hypodermic needles so that was the major fear. To offset this, I was given a pre-op happy pill of some sort. I was major league dopey when they plopped me on the OR table and it seemed like I was unable to make my mouth move to talk. I wanted to verify, for the umpteenth time, that they were not going to put an IV in my arm. My mouth wouldn’t work, so I went to point to the inside of my elbow, but only succeeded in touching the surgeon’s glove. That resulted in being tied down. The operation itself was a total anti-climax and the surgeon actually walked me down to the doctor’s lounge where he changed into his Navy officer’s uniform for his reserve weekend. He says he knew I was fine when I tried to stand up and salute him.

When I had my USAF pre-commissioning physical, they determined that the three remaining wisdom teeth in my mouth had to go. I arranged for my dentist to do it. It was scheduled for a Friday afternoon and my parents were going away for the weekend. My dentist also was going to do it with laughing gas followed by Novocain. When I reported this state of affairs to my fiancée, she and her mother summarily ordered me to cancel the appointment and come to Connecticut where they arranged for their oral surgeon to do it and for my mom-in-law-to-be, who was an RN, to take me. This was my first experience with sodium pentothal and the count backwards from 100. Bill Cosby talks about being so pitiful that he couldn’t even get out the second 9 in 99. He had nothing on me. I was out like a light. The next thing I remember is waking up with a mouthful of cotton, sobbing uncontrollably. And I said something under the influence of the sodium pent that my wife’s mother, to this day, refuses to tell me. I have always wondered if it had anything to do with our sleeping arrangements at Syracuse University….

The first (and only) time I have ever voluntarily suggested submitting to a surgical procedure related directly to the last time I wanted to endure the worry of whether my daughter was going to cease being an only child. So, there we were at the urologist’s office for the pre-op consult. As we were finishing, I explained to him my phobic reaction to anything of a medical/surgical procedure nature. He told me not to worry, that he could give me a shot of valium before the surgery. I then had to explain the entire needle-phobia (which actually has a real name – Trypanophobia. Go ahead. Like Casey Stengel said, you could look it up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trypanophobia). That, then resulted in a prescription for two 10 mg Valium tablets. (Mmmmm. Valium good….) Surgery was scheduled for a Friday. (Some of you may recall this as being the first day of my Secured Transaction course in Law School which I was going to miss.) It was scheduled for 3:30 PM and I spent the day hanging out with my friends at our local hobby shop. An hour before surgery, I took 10 mg. A half hour before, I took 5 mg more and my wife picked me up to drive me. I have NO memory of the drive to the doctor’s office but she says I argued with her the whole way about taking the last 5 mg which she would not allow. I had borrowed my daughter’s Sony Walkman and I DO remember happily hopping up on the table and laying there while the surgeon was doing his thing, singing along with the radio. It was over very quickly (about 25 minutes) and when we got home, I picked up the phone and called my friend Rich (who was considering the same procedure) and said that the surgery was a piece of cake and that if I could tolerate it, anyone could tolerate it. I spent the rest of the evening sitting on a bag of ice. And, yes, unlike a certain episode of the TV sitcom Evening Shade, my daughter remained an only child.

Between 1985 and 2003, surgery and I remained strangers, other than as a bystander with other family members and friends. That all changed in 2003 when my doctor became alarmed at an extremely high level of calcium in my blood. This led to a diagnosis of hyperparathyroidism. The good news is that it is 100% curable. The bad news is that the only way to cure it is surgery. I went through three endocrinologists and way too many blood tests (plus a bone scan) before anyone could convince me that surgery was inevitable. So, I arranged for it in the period between the end of summer Irish dance classes and the beginning of fall classes. As usual, I received my dose of pre-op happy pills. I don’t actually recall the heparin lock being inserted but I would love to know the name of the nurse who did it. At my request, she put it inside my elbow rather than the back of my hand. If I knew her name she’d be on the Christmas list every year! I recall being wheeled into the OR and having them spread my arms straight out. There was a momentary thought about making a joke about the position but I figured even a non-believer like me was taking no chances at a time like that. The surgery was a complete success and the surgeon who did it had a very nice touch and you can barely see the scar on the front of my neck. (It was also great for about a month and a half that I could get away without wearing a tie at work.)

Although technically not surgery, I’ll conclude with my last procedure. Later that same year, the Monday before Thanksgiving, I got my gift for having made it into my second half century. Yes, that’s right, my first colonoscopy. Now I know all the stories about Katie Couric doing hers on TV and my wife telling me during hers that she was awake and watching it on the TV. NO FREAKIN’ THANK YOU! Again, it began with a happy pill and my last conscious memory was something cold hitting my vein through the IV. And then, I was being wheeled out to the car. I hadn’t eaten anything that morning, so my wife asked if I wanted to get lunch and I said, sure. (Understand, she has had several of these and every time, she’s so chipper afterwards that lunch was always a given. She also did not have to have any pre-op happy pills. Remember that point.) We arrived at the restaurant and she led me to the chair and made sure that I was able to successfully navigate the effort of sitting down. I believe I ordered a hamburger platter. The waitress brought our meals and I think I actually had a bite or two. As my wife describes what happened next, she was eating her own meal, looking at her plate and talking to me. She realized that I was not answering and she looked up. There I was, nose down in the hamburger, out cold. I have no idea what we did the rest of the day.

So here we sit on the edge of the New Year and this is, officially, my last blog of 2009. I have no plans to stop doing this as it is terribly therapeutic and a lot of fun for me to write I hope it is enjoyable for you to read, too. Coward that I am I am hoping this particular topic will not need to be revised as the future unfolds. But as that future unfolds, regardless of what awaits in 2010, let me extend my thanks and love to all of you. You have been a source of unending joy and warmth to me. Happy New Year everyone. I love you all more than I can say.