In mid-January I visited my primary physician for my annual physical. Because my PSA shot up above 7, he recommended I see a urologist. I had to wait until early March to see the urologist I've seen before.
When I saw him, he decided he wanted to take 20 biopsy samples, which means it would be done with anesthesia in a hospital rather than in his office. So, that was scheduled in late March, at 5:45 in the morning. But then he wanted me to see my primary physician for a pre-op. I scheduled that for a few days before the biopsy surgery. When I saw my primary physician, he didn't think there would be any problem.
But then he thought about it and because I have a heart valve blockage he thought I should see a cardiologist. This was about two days before the scheduled surgery. I couldn't see my cardiologist until the following week. I notified the urologist's scheduler and she supposedly notified the hospital.
I think the hospital called a day or two before the surgery and I informed them of the delay. At 6:15 of the morning of the original scheduled surgery, the hospital called asking why I wasn't there!
I saw the cardiologist the following Thursday. He didn't see any reason I couldn't have the biopsy. The risk of surgery to open my artery was greater than the risk of the biopsy.
I called urology scheduling and she "penciled" me in for April 10th. At least this time I wouldn't miss a class. "Penciled" probably means entered in the computer system with a provisional note. Surgery called me back a few days later and said I was scheduled for 8 in the morning. A much more civilized time.
So no alcohol 24 hours before and 24 hours after. I like my wine but I could give it up for a couple of days. No breakfast on the day of surgery. Now, that is hard to give up. Only coffee, water, and clear juice. At least I get a jolt of glucose with clear apple juice.
Off we go on Wednesday morning with my wife to keep me company and drive me home.
We get whisked into a small room with a hospital bed and a woman working on a computer in the other half of the room. Hm! Are they getting crowded for office space? I'm given a gown, a robe, support hose, and cloth socks with sticky bottoms. My wife looked at the last and said she should have brought those $125 socks from home; that's what was on the bill for her surgery a couple of years ago.
So, I'm just about ready to be trundled off to surgery. We sit and wait. My wife has a book, but I can't get into reading much. I just sit quietly on the edge of the bed (gurney). And we wait. It's nine o'clock. We hear there has been an emergency surgery. That's certainly more important than my biopsy. And we wait.
A guy is brought in on a gurney to recover from his surgery. The woman working on a computer is his girl friend trying to catch up on work while waiting.
I play with words in my head and come up with "The impatient outpatient". I tell it to a nurse and she just about cracks up. She was my best audience; others smiled or shrugged. Maybe they took it as a serious criticism.
Finally about ten o'clock I'm trundled out of the room in my bed. I watch the ceiling lights flash by and chat with the nurse pushing me. She places me in a curtained alcove. The urologist comes by to check on me; his beaming face is a relaxant. The anesthesiologist comes by and I ask him his name. It's Muzzi. "Parlai italiano?" Boy, does he! Not exactly like a native, but better conversation than I could make. And he spoke slowly enough that we understood every word. He learned it from his "nonna" (grandmother). Next comes an anesthesiology nurse who heard some of the previous conversation and said he was "German" and asked me to use some German phrases. In the course of these comings and goings, I rattled off a few phrases in other languages. Was I entertaining the staff or were they distracting me? While this last conversation is going on, the nurse puts an I.V. in me and starts a saline drip. No big deal except the tube irritates the crook of my elbow a few times.
The surgery space becomes available and I'm moved two or three curtained spaces. Daphne, another anesthesiology nurse, starts the drip of Propofol. Hoo boy! My arm feels like somebody is squeezing it everywhere. Then somebody says, "Melvyn, wake up!"
I feel really tense and stretch everything I can. But otherwise I am content to just lie there. After a few minutes I again watch the lights flash overhead but I don't chat as much. Back in the room. Goodness, it's two o'clock.
I'm offered beverages and I choose water and apple juice, the latter again for the energy. I feel better and better. My bladder says its time to go down the hall. I manage mostly on my own, but slowly and with a nurse at my elbow.
At about three I get permission to get dressed and go home. The staff gives my wife time to bring our car to the front door and escorts me out. Home we go and life returns to normal, sort of.
I was told I would learn the results in a couple of days. Well, those couple of days were thrown into turmoil by the weather. Duluth was hit by a heavy, wet snow fall and many activities were cancelled. As of Sunday I have not been given a result. My attitude is that I'm positive the results are negative.
Meanwhile, I've moved a lot of snow and slept well. The worst side effect was a sore throat from the breathing tube that was put in my throat so I could breathe properly. Today I feel I have some of my singing ability (whatever that means) back.
For the follow-up, see "I was right to be positive about a negative".
