When I had my appendix removed, the whole process was quite a bit more drama than most people generally experience while undergoing this procedure. Just getting to the hospital took more time and effort than I thought necessary, but my dad always did have different priorities than I did. Apparently, coffee and cigarettes listed higher on his list of concerns than the dying child in his car. I would have hoped that I ranked at least a little higher among his top three, but ultimately that was just wishful thinking.
We did make it to the hospital, if not quite intact, at least alive. I went into the emergency room and was admitted almost immediately. Things appeared to be looking up.
I was moved into an examination room, changed into a paper gown, and told to lie down on a gurney. A nurse began poking and prodding my stomach causing me to break out in a sweat. “Does that hurt?” she asked.
“Only a lot,” I told her.
“It looks like you’re having trouble with your appendix.”
I agreed with the prognoses and figured the examination was over. But I soon discovered it was only just getting started. After the nurse finished trying to make me jump off the gurney, she wrote some notes on a chart and left. As soon as she was gone, a guy in a white coat walked in. I assume he was a doctor. At least, I hope so, since he pulled up my paper gown without so much as a, “pardon me,” and started jabbing at my lower stomach with his fingers.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
I screamed once, which I assumed was the agreed upon signal for, “Yes.”
“It looks like it’s your appendix,” he said.
Then a girl stepped into the room. I say, “girl,” not because I’m trying to be dismissive, but rather because she appeared to be about ten years old. She looked liked she might have been there for “bring your kid to work, day.” Although she was also wearing a white coat, she didn’t look old enough to be watching R-rated movies, much less working in a hospital. I can’t remember her name, so I will just refer to her as Dr. Preschool.
The older doctor introduced me to Dr. Preschool and told me she was doing her first-year residency at the hospital. He then told me she was going to do an examination on me.
As she approached my bed, I said, “Let me save you some time. It looks like my appendix.”
Dr. Preschool smiled at me, then spent the next five minutes torturing me mercilessly. There was a great deal more prodding than either the nurse or the older doctor had found necessary. This was followed by a great deal more screaming on my part.
“It looks like your appendix,” she finally said.
“You think?” I asked. “What was your first clue?”
Next, I signed some forms saying that if the hospital killed me during surgery I was totally cool with it, followed by a few more forms that said if they didn’t kill me but messed me up real bad I was okay with that, too.
After the paperwork was completed, the older doctor gave me some unexpected news. He said that Dr. Preschool was going to be the one performing my surgery. I asked if she was old enough to be playing with sharp objects, but he said everything would be fine. He would be observing the operation the entire time.
Well, that was certainly a relief. I was glad to hear that he would be watching while Dr. Preschool cut me open. It was nice knowing my homicide would have a witness.
About an hour later, I was wheeled into an operating room and a plastic mask was placed over my face. Dr. Preschool hovered over me and said, “Just breathe deep. You might feel a little dizzy from the gas, but don’t worry. It will feel like you just drank a lot of beers really fast.”
It was not a very comforting statement. Right before being cut open, nobody wants to hear that in addition to your surgeon being a child, she might also be a raging alcoholic. Before I could object, however, I passed out.
When I woke up a couple hours later, I couldn’t breathe. I mean I literally could not breathe. I couldn’t draw air into my chest, and I began to thrash around in a panic. Somebody put an oxygen mask on me and started an albuterol treatment to open up my lungs. It helped. Several minutes later, when I was certain I wouldn’t die of asphyxiation, I finally began to calm down.
I found out later that while I was unconscious, they had experienced some difficulty intubating me. By “some difficulty,” I mean they couldn’t get the tube into my lungs to keep me breathing. It took several attempts and by the time they finally accomplished it, they had done so much damage to my larynx that my throat closed up from the swelling. There was some damage to the vocal cords as well. I didn’t talk normally for months afterwards.
That was the bad news. The good news was that I was so traumatized by the whole event that they gave me some really powerful drugs to calm me down and stop any subsequent panic attacks. So … thanks for that, guys.
A few hours later, they let me go home. I got the usual warnings about taking it easy and not lifting anything that weighed more than ten pounds. That didn’t go over really well with my wife since our new baby weighed about fifteen pounds at the time.
“Sorry, dear. Dr. Preschool’s orders.”
Fortunately, my parents lived close by and they were able to help out while I was recuperating.
Well, actually my mom was the one that helped out.
My dad was too busy getting coffee.
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