Stitches and Burns

Thank God for small favors: big needles with a couple of cc's of anesthesia, endless supplies of ice for cold compress, lots of milligrams of sedatives and painkillers, underwear underneath obscenely-cut hospital patient gowns, gourmet hospital food, and the comfort of loving friends.

Yesterday, I came out of a 46-minute surgery. It was otherwise minor, qualified for an outpatient procedure, but still I had to be confined overnight for pre-operation prep, considering that the operation will be at 9 the following morning.

Two days ago, just a few hours after I published the Death by Overtime blog, where I tried to desperately look splendidly fine-looking in spite of the harrowing thought of teaching seminars I wasn't much a crackerjack of, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning (at 3:25am, to be exact) with an excruciating pain in my mid-section. I tried all sorts of relief I could imagine--homemade milk of magnesia, forced defecation, Chinese-meets-Western ointments and teas, book of prayers, involuntary heaving, accupressure, and passing of gas--but nothing worked. Right when I got to the office, in between outbursts of shooting pain in my visceral section, I formed two theories of the possible culprits: (1) that bottle of extra-spicy Spanish-style sardines (with wheat bread) that I had for dinner (which was pretty imaginable); and (2) the anxiety from being unprepared for a series of consequential training programs that have been dauntlessly plotted into my now-multicolored and virtually cramped calendar (which was more likely).

As I was still iffy to have heavy intakes of food, I agreed to meet up with Manolet to have a hot bowl of soup inGreenbelt for lunch. Half an hour later, the same bowl of soup was staring back at me...from the toilet bowl. With a "Shit, I seriously need to haul my brown ass to Makati Med right this very minute and admit myself into my small Ps 1,950.00/day private room" thought in my head, I shutdown my PC, lugged all my stuff--replete with a Customer Service book, which I have been intermittently reading for a seminar, my UK Men's Health magazine, and my legions of forms for PhilHealth and the company hospitalization insurance--and checked myself in room 453 and snoozed for a good three minutes.

Barely three minutes into my forty winks, the nurse came in for my orientation of the facilities and the rules and regulations of the hospital (e.g. that if I wanted to charge my mobile phone, I will have to go up the tenth floor!). She advised me later on that there were more people coming. And true enough, in almost less than ten minute intervals, my door opened to legions of hospital doctors, nurses, orderlies and staff: for my remote control, my complimentary bottle of mineral water, my first, second, and third blood pressure, breathing and temperature check, the rounds of doctors, and the dreaded blood test. I finally got to drift to sleep at around 4pm, only to be roused from it by the incessant ringing of the room telephone. It was a lady named Rosanna who was telling me that my company was not accredited by the admitting physician...ergo, that I was there, technically, unofficially. And since she neither comprehended a single word I was saying--although spoken in basic, unsophisticated, layman's English AND Tagalog--nor even offered to just phone my company to settle this obvious misunderstanding, I had to do all the phone calls and settling myself. Geesh. Thank God I was a patient for minor surgery and not cardiac arrest!

My friends started to come in between my series of tests and x-rays and being wheeled in and out of my hospital room. Yes, Sheila, you were the very first one. And the doctor thought you were my wife from how we were touching each other when he came in with his staff (whose namesake was Rob)! Hilarious, eh? At half past ten, the last five of my visitors came to say goodnight. Since I was on NPO (or nothing per orem/by mouth) after midnight, I practically begged my companion Jeffrey to just intravenously feed the darned instant capuccino into me at around 1am. He didn't budge. Damn. He was already sleeping and lightly snoring on the couch while I stayed fully awake, watching endless reruns of TV shopping ads (which used to always put me to sleep). Finally fell asleep at half past three, with images of belly fats melting away because of the wonders of a daily 50-minute use of the Spa Belt. I should get one of those darned things soon.

The morning nurse Julie woke me up for my ultrasound. I wasn't even able to take a shower! Still wearing the same clothes from the previous night, I went to put on my hospital gown and got wheeled out of my room, into the elevator packed with passengers looking at me questioningly (and even one teasing me about my gown, to which I teased back, "there's really nothing underneath this flimsy gown"; that shut her up), and into the ultrasound room. I was told there by nurse Mitch that my pancreas seem to be hiding from her instruments, that my tests would cost Ps 3,300.00, that I should stop drinking and eating "fun" foods because my cholesterol level isn't exactly impressive, and that I was lucky my prostates are still in tiptop shape (Can I get a Whohoo?).

I was wheeled into the operating room right after, because I was running late for the 9am surgery schedule. Changed into a new green laboratory gown, and then started getting prepped by the O.R. assistant nurses, beginning with a requisite disinfecting of my mouth with isopropyl alcohol...or what tasted like it. My three doctors all came in with their sinister smiles and warm tools. Oh, I meant warm smiles and sinister tools...my bad; must be the anesthesia still jetéing in my nervous system. Four pokes of oh-so-painful and oh-so-thick and oh-so-warm anesthesia and barely four minutes later, I couldn't feel my lower lip. Next thing I knew, I was seeing (through a peep hole from the lower portion of my eye cover) streams and spurts of blood and tissue and skin cells. I was stitched up towards the tail end of the 46 minutes, and was wheeled into the recovery room. This was so reminiscent of my first operation at the Makati Med last October 2000 for a fractured and dislocated right pinkie. I will not get into the nitty-gritties, but let's just leave it at this: the condition of the fracture was aptly called "Boxer's Fracture". ;)

Although my lip felt like I was the male version of Angelina Jolie and Goldie Hawn COMBINED (dare I say Tony Ferrer???!!!), my lip looked perfectly normal. Must still be the anesthesia and its feeling of numbness that was causing that impression. With instant noodle soup dripping down my chin from my lip's inability to achieve chewing with a closed mouth, and the anesthesia starting to wear off and thus causing such a bitch of a pain, my friends started coming in again. It was going to be such a long day. And me not being able to speak in a normal way was going to be such a welcome treat for all of them. Haha.

Lunchtime and the gastroenterologist came in with good news: that I was cleared for discharge in the late afternoon, and that the pain I was getting from the day before was attributed to the clogged up intestines (read: fecal matters and acids), stress, and that I should also just infuse my diet with lots of fiber. In his own words, he said that no matter how much of a regular guy I was, was just "puno ng ebak", i.e. by those that were left over because of possible unhealthy eating regimen. Yes, I can now safely acceede that when someone tells me I'm "full of shit", I should just take that literally.

Now, armed with my antibiotics, painkillers, antacids, fibers/laxatives, mouth disinfectants, and my box of Black Forest, basket of fresh fruits, Zip-loc of Trail Mix, bottled water, and soft roll clusters, I am home. I am now lounging around sitting on my gym ball typing this blog, tearing piece-by-piece a sandwich and sipping low fat milk through a straw for breakfast, and then getting ready to watch the Shall We Dance dvd that I bought the other day.
I am going out in a while to upload this one at the internet café downstairs, and to buy more happy pills for my next few days of medicine intake. Yeah. I am a druggie.