Medical Mike, Part II: The Awakening

Photo: Morguefile

By Lori Duff

As we last left this story, my husband had just successfully finished his back surgery. I headed to his room where I waited for him to be wheeled in. And then I waited. And then I waited some more. It was a good hour and a half before he joined the land of the conscious sufficiently to be taken out of the recovery room.

When he came into the room, he was a peculiar combination of still-sorta-under-anesthesia: feisty, confused, irrational, and in pain. It was somewhere at this point when I realized how truly unprepared I was for this ordeal. I was as delusional about the process as I was about what life would like with a newborn baby in the house. I imagined sleeping, sweet, snuggly babies, resting comfortably on my chest while I read good books. That happened for maybe five minutes a day. Then I got what everyone else gets, which is a crying, demanding, sleep-depriving, eating, pooping machine that doesn’t even so much as smile back at your for six weeks.

That same thing is, more or less, what I had in a husband post-surgery. He slept ten minutes of every twenty, woke up, demanded food or other assistance, and then went back to sleep for exactly enough time for me not to be able to do anything productive, including get my own self some sleep or rest. Like a fool, I had brought some work with me and books to read, imagining my poor, morphined husband peacefully sleeping while I Got Things Done. I did not, however, bring a toothbrush, a bar of soap, a change of underwear, or even a particularly comfortable pair of pants. I don’t know what I was initially thinking. Probably that he’d be so doped up that he wouldn’t notice if I went home for the night to sleep in my own bed and shower in my own shower. I am a fool.

No, the first night, after he finally got drugged enough to be comfortable, and I felt like it was safe leaving him for a few minutes, I asked someone in scrubs what time the cafeteria closed. I was told 6pm. As it was about 8pm when I asked the question, it was a most unhelpful answer. Even if it weren’t, it is still a ridiculous time for a restaurant to close. Unless, of course, you are in south Florida where the majority of the population eats at 4:30. We weren’t. I was told there were vending machines on the first floor (I was on the 6th) and so I wandered down to see what I could find.

As vending machines go, they were good ones. They had yogurts and microwave burritos and questionable looking sandwiches. In the end, I chose a Cup O’Noodles, because I knew I could find hot water somewhere (but not a microwave) and a small can of pineapple chunks. Oh yeah, and a pack of mint gum to make up for the lack of oral hygiene.

I went back up to the room to eat my gourmet meal and find out if my pitiful husband needed help rolling over. (He did.) After what passed for dinner, I went about making my bed. It was a chair, covered in rather hard, non-breathable vinyl (for easy clean up for goodness knows what kind of bodily fluids and whatever else has been spilled, dropped, oozed, or splashed on it over the years). Once I got down on the floor and figured out how to unlock the wheels, I pulled it away from the wall, only almost knocking over the IV pole once, so that it had room to recline. I had been given two sheets, a stiff blanket, and two crunchy pillows. I didn’t want to make the ‘bed’ until I had reclined it, so I got in it and found myself scooting all across the room as I pushed back because I had forgotten to re-lock the wheels. Then when I finally got it back, I was the picture of grace trying to figure out how to get out of it without having it fold back up or slip back on the slick floor.

And so, fully dressed, I settled in for the night. Sort of. Anything resembling rest in a hospital is purely coincidental. Nurses and techs and orderlies were in and out all night, administering medications and taking vital signs. All of which does not count the tremendous ordeal it was when Mike wanted to roll over or change positions, which required my assistance and strength and getting ookily close to some frightening looking wound dressings.

About 6:30 am, the surgeon came back in to check on Mike. He was showered and peppy looking, and I sort of wanted to hit him in the face for it. He pronounced Mike “as good as can be expected” and informed him that, like it or not, he’d be getting out of bed that day.

And that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Lori B. Duff is the author of the Amazon ‘Hot New Release’ Mismatched Shoes and Upside Down Pizza, a collection of autobiographical humor essays. You can follow her on Twitter at @LoriBDuff and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/loribduffauthor