When I wake up from anesthesia, I usually cry. A lot. I usually sob for quite a while. Like after I had my adenoids taken out (adenoidectomy) and tubes put in my ears at 6. That would've been in 1988. Both were done because of my breathing problems and frequent ear infections. The tubes fell out on their own. I remember feeling something on my ear, then I looked down to see a large ball of yellow with a white spindle-type structure in the middle. It was about the size of a lentil. After that surgery I woke up in a room with curtains all around me, 2 strange women looking over me, and my mouth dry as a crusty towel. So they gave me a semi-damp washcloth to suck on. And I cried.
Then, there was the time I had my tonsils taken out (tonsillectomy). In 1995. The last thing I remembered as I was going under was, "It smells like garlic and gas." Plus, I had people holding me down from the 5 failed attempts to find a vein for the anesthetic. I woke up, once again to some strange people, extending a semi-damp washcloth to my blood-caked, dry lips. And as they wheeled me to the elevator, down to my room, I threw up. And I continued to cry.
A few months ago I had my wisdom teeth taken out. I was told it would be pretty easy. But, since I'm fair-skinned, there would probably be a lot of bruising. The IV was placed as if a textbook example. I woke up to 2 women helping me out of the chair and into the hallway, where my husband was waiting with a concerned look. Though I held two icepacks to my cheeks and the gauze inside my mouth was nearly choking me, I sobbed. Nearly uncontrollable. I got home, attempted to take my pain medicine, choked. I said, "I think I want to cry more." I got 2 dry sockets. And nerve pain from a cut nerve. And I cried. Oh dear, did I cry.
Then I set the date for the excision of a right wrist dorsal ganglion cyst. Outpatient surgery. First on the day's list.
The nurse anesthetist, Francesco, was a nice fellow. He had a student, Ryan, with him that day. They assured me that all would go well. I assured them that things usually don't. We discussed superficial things, like how ironic it would be for a physical therapist to get therapy post-op. He was the last one I talked to before I drifted away. He told me as I woke up that all was well. I watched as the team bandaged up my hand and forearm, then removed the tourniquet from my arm. I slowly became more aware of my surroundings, my thoughts, my body. Francesco said I kept talking during surgery, but I remember none of it. I asked if I said anything that would lessen his opinion of myself. He laughed and replied, "no."
As I was wheeled back to my room, I realized that I wasn't crying. I was actually smiling. Attempting to cheer up those that passed as I floated by. I laid in bed, watching Price is Right, sitting next to my husband. I laughed, took a bite of my bagel and drank some absolutely wonderful apple juice.
