It was in early September 2006 when Dr. Z performed a micro-discectomy at L5-S1. My leg pain was resolved, but it was still weak and my foot was numb.
I was in St. Mary’s Hospital, in a single room (yay) in the post-op wing. St. Mary’s was founded in 1857 by the Sisters of Mercy and is the oldest continuously operating hospital in the city. I saw more than a few Sisters milling around when I entered the hospital, clearly still involved, Catholic relics all over the place. The hospital itself felt old, dark, tired, and quiet, like an invisible hush permeating the air.
The next few hours post-op were spent on how to get “comfortable.” How could I possibly do that — on one of the thinnest hospital beds I have ever encountered (a cot, essentially) — with a brand new, four-inch incision on my lower back? Please. It hurt. It was hard.
I really had to go. The scar on my left forearm marks a shattered wrist with eight screws in it after a rollerblading accident a long time ago. It took two years of rehab to get 85% mobility back.
The night after my procedure, I needed to use the bathroom and there was no way I could get out of bed on my own. The site of the surgery was fresh, palpable, way too soon to touch. So I hit the nurse call button and waited. And waited. And waited. I hit the button again, and the same thing happened. Twenty minutes went by and no response. Then I started yelling but the thickness of the door kept the sound at bay. No one could hear me. I was frustrated and flummoxed: was I going to pee in the bed?! After calling out numerous times, eventually a nurse appeared, doing her rounds, pushing open the big heavy door to take my vitals. She came into the room with a dismissive look on her face and didn’t even meet my eyes as she strapped on the velcro cuff to take my blood pressure. I let her know I really needed to pee and could she please help me get to bathroom? Her eyes were glued to the little screen, waiting for the numbers to show up. She said nothing until the numbers stopped moving and the beep sounded, then ripped off the cuff as quickly as possible.
“Please,” I said. “I need help.”
And then she started to argue with me. She was one of those hard, rough, brusque nurses who isn’t particularly concerned about how I felt, trapped in a bed, needing to get to the bathroom. She saw no reason to help, she was too busy doing other things. I was like, What’s wrong with you? I need to pee!
“Look,” I said, “I’m going to pee in the bed, unless you help me.”
She looked annoyed. Without a word, her eyes swept the room and spotted a barf pan, sitting on a table just out of reach. She picked it up and handed it to me.
“Um, I don’t think so.” In my head: Are you fucking kidding me?! We were in St. Mary’s Hospital, were we not? What would God do?
She put the barf pan back on the table with a lazy toss. I could see her rolling her eyes. “Fine,” she barked. “Sit up or I can’t help you.” There was no softness in her. She handled me roughly every step of the way, but we did make it to the bathroom in due time.
I went home the day after surgery. It was probably a day too early but the place was dismal and I couldn’t stand it. I felt like a guest in an old time haunted hotel.
As with rides home, this one was no different.