My Bariatric Surgery II

On January 3, 2010, I reported to the Meir Medical Center in Kfar Saba, Israel.  It was a nice morning.  The sun was shining, the traffic was as horrible as every Sunday.  I was anxious, but determined.  I remember clearly that my anxiety fed mainly on the fact that I had no clue as for what to expect.  I didn’t know how I will be prepared to the surgery, and worse, what would I feel afterwards.  How would I function, what would I be hooked up to, how long will I have to be at the hospital.  I had plenty of questions, and not surprisingly, every answer sprouted many more.  I realized at one point that being the control freak that I am, more data would not make me feel more in control.  The reason was simple.  I wasn’t.  Once I understood that for a limited time I had to give up control over my own life, I had less questions, and in general, I felt a lot better.

I was a little late showing up, but it didn’t appear to be a problem.  All my co-patients were late on that Sunday.  And the anxiety wasn’t such an uncommon behavior either.  In fact, compare to the rest I was relatively calm.  After being admitted into a room, and relocated to another room, I was asked a few questions by a doctor, many others by a nurse, and then they told me I could go home and come back for an interview with the anaesthesiologist the next day.  My wife came to drive me home, and I spent the night being a little more anxious, but at home in my own bed.

Monday morning we drove back to the hospital and I in late afternoon I went through the interview with the anaesthesiologist.  Uneventful, yet very important.  General anaesthesia is a risk factor in any surgery.  It can cause complications during and following the surgery.  The doctor was very professional, and not without a sense of humor.  When the meeting was over, I went back to the surgical ward.

The chief nurse, a tiny, pretty woman in her forties told me to take two showers.  One right away and another the next morning.  I had to use a special red, stinking, antiseptic liquid soap, and, well, engage in the first unpleasant task of the coming days.  Trimming my hairy belly.  In all honesty, it wasn’t as bad as I thought.  I went to sleep and woke up the next morning scared shitless.

Surgeries usually start at 8:00 A.M.  I was third in line, two more significant ladies was in front of me.  I was surrounded by my wife, Dorit, my mother, my sister and my brother.  Their presence gave me a strange mixture of feelings: the comfort associated with being with loved ones, and the tension associated with being with loved ones at difficult, sometimes critical times.  I was by my mother’s hospital bed when she went through her medical ordeal fifteen years ago.  I remember clearly the three of us, and my father sitting by her bed, pacing, tense, trying unsuccessfully to make he feel better and confident.  Needless to say, my loving and dear family was as successful as we were fifteen years ago in making me feel calm and confident.  Yet, let it be very clear:  There was no way in hell I could do it without them, their concern for me was physically felt, and finally, the most important people in my life (children excluded, I didn’t want them to see me this way) were present next to my bed.

Apparently, there’s a wider circle of people who care for me.  It was a very pleasant feeling to know that outside the close circle of the family, there were others who were worried, who were crossing fingers, or praying for success and recovery.

11:00 came and went, and so did 12:00, 13:00 and 14:00.  I started to worry that the surgery would be postponed to the next day.  I wasn’t sure I would be able to go through another day of this kind of anxiety.  I wanted it over.  My sister made a phone call, and was told that I would be called to the OR momentarily.  As she hung up the phone, the nurse showed up.  It was showtime.

The nurse went over the file, made sure all forms are present and properly signed.  That all medical checks were present.  That I was prepared for surgery.  I was.  A sanitary nurse came in to haul me to the OR.  I wanted to walk, but standard procedure prevented me from doing so.  The way to the Operation Room is long.  An elevator takes you down to the first floor, then you roll over to the adjacent building, another elevator, waiting room full of nervous relatives, and another waiting room for the patients to be while the OR is being prepared.  I spent the next twenty minutes in the patient before surgery waiting room.  The nurse’s name was Ora.  That’s my mother’s name.  I thought it was a good sign.  On the way, my brother reach down and told me that this is the time that would register in my mind.  He was right.

Twenty minutes later I was rolled into the OR.  I moved to the operating table, a narrow stretcher with hand extensions.  Immediately, the crew started to hook me up to all kind of stuff.  Vital signs, oxygen, a system that makes sure blood continues to circulate while I was under.  I am not a very spiritual person.  But this was probably the closest I would ever get to having an out of body experience.  I was watching it all in great curiosity, as if it wasn’t me who was about to be put under and cut.  I was expecting the anesthesiologist to tell me to count down from one hundred, knowing of course that I would get to about ninety seven.  It didn’t happen.  He said he was going to put me out.  And then I was out cold.