Surgery, Part 2

Someone is patting my hands. I open my eyes with some effort and see a blond nurse smiling at me with some concern.  She doesn't look like Jesus so I figure that I've pulled through the surgery just fine.  She asks how I'm feeling.  Very polite, right?  I tell her that I'm feeling dizzy, slurring my words badly.  The room is spinning, and I'm having some trouble focusing my eyes.  She pops something into my mouth and says that it should help with the dizziness.  At this point, I just want to go back to sleep, so I close my eyes for a few more minutes. 

I open my eyes again, and the spinning continues.  I also notice that my arms feel really heavy and shaky.  The nurse asks if I want a saltine. Since I haven't eaten anything since the night before, I agree.  Trying to put the cracker in my mouth requires some effort, and chewing is painful.  After two bites, I put the cracker down.  Too hard to eat right now.  I close my eyes again.  Also, my right ear hurts.

After what feels like a few more minutes, the nurse rouses me again and says it's time to get dressed.  The dizziness pill has actually helped, and the spinning isn't as bad. She starts pulling my clothes out of a plastic bag, and I wonder how I'm going to get these clothes back on.  She's evidently done this before because getting me dressed goes pretty smoothly.  I don't put forth much effort other than to lift an arm or leg when she says to. I lie back down on the bed, glad that I haven't had to try to button or zip anything. This is one of those rare times when stretchy knit pants are more than OK.

Then she says, "I'm going to get your husband and then we'll get you ready to go home."  Finally, I can see William again.  It seems only a few seconds before he comes bounding in, smiling hesitantly with the unspoken question of how I'm feeling.  I see concern and relief in his eyes, and he looks happy to see me. I'm happy to see him, too.  But every part of my body weighs about 100 pounds, and moving requires too much effort, so I give him my best effort at a small smile.  The nurse starts talking to him about getting me home.  I start to feel nauseated, but it passes as soon as I close my eyes.  I have the presence of mind to ask for a barf bag for the car ride home, just in case.

After a few more minutes of lying perfectly still with my eyes shut and not making a sound, I'm roused once again by the nurse who has procured a wheelchair.  Time to get up.  Getting into the wheelchair isn't as difficult as I'd expected, and William, as is so often his lot in life, ends up carrying my purse as we work our way out of the post-op recovery room and into the hallway.  I'm wheeled through the same lobby where we'd waited in the morning and notice just how small this hospital is.  William runs to get the car, parked maybe 50 yards from the entrance.  I tell the nurse that she forgot my barf bag.  She looks at William bringing the car up and decides to run inside to grab one for me. It's not like I'm going to make a getaway in the wheelchair.  She comes back with the barf bag, just as William pulls the car up.  The two of them help me get into the front seat.  I close my eyes once again, and William drives away.  I don't say a word on the drive home.  It requires too much effort.

Finally, we're home.  I imagine that Mom and the girls are waiting expectantly to see me.  William helps me get out of the car and navigate my way through our garage and laundry room into the house.  Everyone is waiting there for me.  I smile a little and tell Emily that I brought her a barf bag from the hospital (unused, of course.)  Then I say that I need to sleep, so we head upstairs and I collapse on my bed.  I'll find out what the surgeon told William about surgery later.