(no subject)
Swelling has narrowed my vision to a tear-streaked La-Forge-esque strip.
Indeed.It feels like I have taken a small muppet, stretched it and shoved my head up its ass until it fits like a belaclava.
Fortunately, I'm not having trouble sleeping on my back. I am having trouble with stress/narcotic-induced repetitive dreams that gradually turn sour and more baffling over the course of the night. I've been up for a coule hours, hoping to shake them.
Also, slight tinglings in numb places herald diminished swelling and the return of nervous sensation. Good.
What I can remember...
Wednesday, noon.
My Mum and i had been in receiving for an hour when the nurse came to get us. She wore blue scrubs and a hair-holder-hat thing. She's from Haiti; we're from Canada. She asked if we spoke French.
"Je n'etudier pas a dix ans" - "I am not to study for ten years.
Medical history? Allergies? Past surgeries?
She showed my Mum to the family waiting area, and had me put my boots and clothes in two bags. She waited outside the washroom on two or three occasions while worry squeezed whatever it could out the back route. Not getting a single pronoun right, she helped me into the yukata hospital gown and said that she liked how I was "nice; always saying thank-you."
Loud groans come from an unseen place.
"Sounds disturbing, doesn't it?" She says.
The nurse at the communications centre says "He is like a child."
Mandarin accent. They have talent in here from all over.
She means that he's mentally handicapped; the poor bastard sounds confused and scared. I wonder what he had done.
Starting to feel really scared. Where is my mother?
I hear that wounded soldiers often ask the same question.
The comm nurse comes over to my bed and puts in an IV. Medical history? Allergies? Past surgeries?
My panic declines. The IV contains glucose, electrolytes, water and so-on; all the stuff that I'm lacking. Getting in a heavy workout the previous night might have prevented me from being restless, but it also depleted my nutrient and fluid reserves.
The OR nurse is next. Local accent. Near retirement. Disarming in the way that Boston social rules tend to favour.
(Not an actual quote, but the gist is correct) "You're gonna have some surgery now - nothin' to worry about. You'll be fine y'hear?"
Then the anesthesiologist. Educated midwestern accent.
"There are risks. Sometimes people even wake up during surgery."
But you don't feel pain right?..
"We're going to keep you under, and make sure that doesn't happen."
(in retrospect, this is not a good answer)
"Can you sign this waiver?"
You've got to be kidding me. You're asking me to sign this now? What side effects are on this anyway? ...brain damage... death?
"What's the likelyhood of death?"
Less than zero point zero zero two - less than one percent.
Does he mean 0.002 out of 1, or 0.002% out of 100%. To a stats fan, less than one percent is not "negligible."
I decide against asking how many people he's lost.
Whatever. I'll sign it. Let's go.
Then the surgeon. I give him the paper with the sketches I'd made in reception: what I want and what I really don't want. I want to make absolutely sure that this is clear. We've been over this, but I saw a picture of one of his patients that made me a bit anxious. It's the first time I'd seen him change a face in a way that I'd consider taking it too far. I picked this guy because of the absence of said results.
It's clear. We agree on what to do.
Nothing more to do now.
In bed then. People bustling around me.
Try to remember: I know about twenty people who've had surgery and none of them have had anything go horribly wrong.
They're going to knock me out and open up my face. This is scary. I could even die here. Hey, I like being alive. There's lots of great stuff to do. Friends. Food. Cuddling. Sex. Art. Wit.
What happened next?
I think the OR nurse came back.
I don't remember getting sedation
or any other waypoint
but presumably there was something
Or I have been replaced with an exact a similar but swollen copy of myself.
In any case-
[Discontinuity]
Indeed.It feels like I have taken a small muppet, stretched it and shoved my head up its ass until it fits like a belaclava.
Fortunately, I'm not having trouble sleeping on my back. I am having trouble with stress/narcotic-induced repetitive dreams that gradually turn sour and more baffling over the course of the night. I've been up for a coule hours, hoping to shake them.
Also, slight tinglings in numb places herald diminished swelling and the return of nervous sensation. Good.
What I can remember...
Wednesday, noon.
My Mum and i had been in receiving for an hour when the nurse came to get us. She wore blue scrubs and a hair-holder-hat thing. She's from Haiti; we're from Canada. She asked if we spoke French.
"Je n'etudier pas a dix ans" - "I am not to study for ten years.
Medical history? Allergies? Past surgeries?
She showed my Mum to the family waiting area, and had me put my boots and clothes in two bags. She waited outside the washroom on two or three occasions while worry squeezed whatever it could out the back route. Not getting a single pronoun right, she helped me into the yukata hospital gown and said that she liked how I was "nice; always saying thank-you."
Loud groans come from an unseen place.
"Sounds disturbing, doesn't it?" She says.
The nurse at the communications centre says "He is like a child."
Mandarin accent. They have talent in here from all over.
She means that he's mentally handicapped; the poor bastard sounds confused and scared. I wonder what he had done.
Starting to feel really scared. Where is my mother?
I hear that wounded soldiers often ask the same question.
The comm nurse comes over to my bed and puts in an IV. Medical history? Allergies? Past surgeries?
My panic declines. The IV contains glucose, electrolytes, water and so-on; all the stuff that I'm lacking. Getting in a heavy workout the previous night might have prevented me from being restless, but it also depleted my nutrient and fluid reserves.
The OR nurse is next. Local accent. Near retirement. Disarming in the way that Boston social rules tend to favour.
(Not an actual quote, but the gist is correct) "You're gonna have some surgery now - nothin' to worry about. You'll be fine y'hear?"
Then the anesthesiologist. Educated midwestern accent.
"There are risks. Sometimes people even wake up during surgery."
But you don't feel pain right?..
"We're going to keep you under, and make sure that doesn't happen."
(in retrospect, this is not a good answer)
"Can you sign this waiver?"
You've got to be kidding me. You're asking me to sign this now? What side effects are on this anyway? ...brain damage... death?
"What's the likelyhood of death?"
Less than zero point zero zero two - less than one percent.
Does he mean 0.002 out of 1, or 0.002% out of 100%. To a stats fan, less than one percent is not "negligible."
I decide against asking how many people he's lost.
Whatever. I'll sign it. Let's go.
Then the surgeon. I give him the paper with the sketches I'd made in reception: what I want and what I really don't want. I want to make absolutely sure that this is clear. We've been over this, but I saw a picture of one of his patients that made me a bit anxious. It's the first time I'd seen him change a face in a way that I'd consider taking it too far. I picked this guy because of the absence of said results.
It's clear. We agree on what to do.
Nothing more to do now.
In bed then. People bustling around me.
Try to remember: I know about twenty people who've had surgery and none of them have had anything go horribly wrong.
They're going to knock me out and open up my face. This is scary. I could even die here. Hey, I like being alive. There's lots of great stuff to do. Friends. Food. Cuddling. Sex. Art. Wit.
What happened next?
I think the OR nurse came back.
I don't remember getting sedation
or any other waypoint
but presumably there was something
Or I have been replaced with an exact a similar but swollen copy of myself.
In any case-
[Discontinuity]