Pre-Surgery

I’m just barely awake this morning: pain, anxiety, and frustration kept me from getting any rest. I'm writing to distract myself from my thirst and hunger. I can’t just take the route of just eating breakfast and drinking coffee to make an effort to liven me up for the day. I’m supposed to be fasting, as I wait for a call to go back to the hospital. A complicated series of events that transpired since last Wednesday have left me in a less than an upbeat mood. I’ve been injured at work, the result being that my bicep tendon has been torn away completely, it least that’s the initial assessment that was made by an orthopedic surgeon. I waited eight hours there before I was sent back home, without even anything practical to use, like a sling, or pain-killers. I could have been in surgery the very day I arrived in the hospital on Wednesday, but things, of course, can never flow that easily. I have to be taken off other medications I use first before they can cut me open, or else I’d just bleed to death. I’ve been made to endure four days of pain, to allow for my blood chemistry to be readjusted, before they can admit me to reattach the connective tissue. In the meanwhile, I’ve been watching my arm swell up, and the skin around the injured area and the forearm sort of chameleonize to weird mottled shades of vermillion, blue, and purple. I was called on Sunday, told to get there for to prepare for surgery that morning. What ended up happening was an almost 10 hour wait in the emergency waiting room, only to be sent home again. It ended up that a couple of other accidents occurred while I was on my way to the hospital, and then as I waited there. The operating theatres became used for these emergencies, and my procedure got deprioritized, and eventually cancelled for the day. I ranted about it on a Facebook post, but I realize how senseless doing that all is. It’s mostly the pain talking. A friend commented that a silver lining has to be found here somewhere. I’m trying to find it.

I arrived home to find Ella very anxious, squeaky, and whiny. She either sensed how irritated and upset I was, or she was triggered by the tell-tale hospital stench that clung to my clothing after nearly 10 hours of waiting there. She has learned to associate that hospital smell with something bad. When my clothes were brought home, without me in them, from the last long stay at the hospital I had nearly two years ago, she went into melt-down panic mode. It was the longest that we’ve ever been separated from each other, and along with the hospital stench the clothes no doubt smelled with, they also stank with my own fear and angst tainted sweat, which made her upset. It has also been disappointing her for the past few days that I’m not allowing her to eagerly charge at me like a bullet to jump into my arms, and to sniff and kiss my face to greet me when I arrive home. She probably feels rejected. As much as I appreciate the welcome, I wouldn’t be able to stand the pain of the impact.

This morning, since 5:00 AM, still aggravated, all I could think of doing was tidying up the place as best as I could with only my right hand and arm, and a semi-useful left hand on an arm I can’t flex without pain. It wasn’t like I was doing anything too delicate or complicated: like threading needles or tinkering with engines. Tasks like changing razors, stocking my shelves, filling the fridge with frozen leftovers, throwing out garbage, folding laundry, and changing fitted bedsheets was enough of a challenge with just one hand and a quarter hand/arm capacity to use. I thought silly things like this stuff should be done before my arm gets put in some cast, and rendered even more immobile and useless.

So, where is the silver lining in all of this? I suppose if I was ignorant about how useful my left hand really was, I’m certainly not anymore. I’ve had a lot of time given to me watching people getting carted in the emergency ward who are in worse shape than I’m in. Something to remind me that my days could be a lot worse. I have that going on everyday for me at work really, but somehow one has to tune it out to keep oneself functional and sane. It sounds selfish, but it’s really a defense mechanism, especially now for the last while as my duties changed over to doing something more analytical. It struck me two entries ago, about how I said how important it was to keep strong and fit if one wants to do well with living in singlehood. I don’t exactly have that going on anymore; having a fraction of my physical capacity now. I’ve been forced to reach out to people I like and trust to ask for help with things: I’m terrible at doing that sort of thing.

I’m not posting this to any of the social media links I’m on. If people really care to know this personal stuff, they’ll trouble themselves to find this entry themselves. I was told that there is a regularly small risk of heart attack, stroke, or death during an operation. Given that I have some precursors that elevate my risks for those things somewhat, I’ll just say that to those who are dear to me, I’ll be thinking of all of you before they put me under. Thank you for being part of my life. I hope things don’t be going from bad to worse, but if they do, I’m going to be taking my memories of you with me.

They'll hopefully calling me soon, time to wrap up and get ready to go. I hope the next few weeks of healing from all this won’t be too hassle-laden and turbulent.