Bad Coffee is Better than No Coffee

Those lucky enough to earn major surgery know the deal. Its eerily simple really.

Step one: Enjoy an anxious yet somber drive to hospital. Noone likes surgery, but at this point your body is more confused than anything. No breakfast. No coffee. “Is it even safe to be driving right now?”

Step two: Answer a million questions. For the first of many times this will be requested you'll also get to and sign away almost every basic right. Meanwhile some bitter and often mildly retarded administrative staff member stresses over the laptop you’ve bought along. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realized enduring days of boredom was part of my rehab.”

Step three: Ditch the clothes and accept your fate. Images of cell doors closing arise as you take your last few steps and connect ass to bed. Reality truly sets in with the beginning of an IV and your first taste of your new reality - pain. “No extra charge for that sir.”

Step four: Meet the team. Your surgeon peaks his head in, smiles and asks if you’re ready. Before you’re able to cough up an answer he excuses himself because he’ll be needing a latte since he’s been up since 5am and this will be his 3rd surgery of the day. He is followed by another doctor - the anesthesiologist. This guy is either jolly and adorned with tyedied scrubs or uncomfortably calm and completely devoid of social skills. With a flick of the wrist there’s already some substance entering your blood stream and he utters one of the last phrases you’ll remember, “This will help you relax.”

Step five: Give in. Vision narrows while a team of nurses along with the anesthesiologist wheel you off down the hall through what seems like numerous doorways. When you finally arrive in the OR, almost a dozen people in blue scrubs barely take notice of your entrance as they attend to varied tasks with an urgency that is apparent even in your now severely doped state. And then, before you realize what’s happening an orderly cracks a stupid joke and the world goes dark. “Who wants to put the catheter in today folks?”

Step six: Come back from the dead. In what seems like only a moment, consciousness returns. Like waking up early in the morning after a long night at the bars, your oddly cheerful as there are still numerous narcotics in your system. Sometime in the next hour reality sets in. Intense thrist and a throbbing pain is developing. “Fuck me.”

Step seven: Survive the first night. Forget comfort. It doesn’t exist. The pain meds necessary to take the edge off interacts with anesthesia drugs causing dizziness, nausea and generalized shittiness. Hot becomes cold only to become hot again. Sleep is impossible, but you don’t even have the energy to watch TV. Take the sum of a 2 day hangover, full blown jetlag, your worst day at the office and a car accident. Now square the total. “I’d rather be anywhere else right now.”

Step eight: Adjust to life in a gown. Give up on being modest. Your gear is gonna be on full display. Life begins to feel like a never-ending plain flight where the flight attendants poke you with things and badger with the same questions over and over: “Spell your last name. What’s your birthdate? How’s your pain?” There’s no booze, but, if opiates are your thing, you won’t mind forgoing it. Coffee starts to sound good again, and that first cup of joe soothes the soul about as much as those first hits of morphine. Soon your feeling psyched and start cranking out dips on the walker and typing stupid updates on facebook. “I love you all. My friends are the best!”

Step nine: Return to the real world. Just about the time you’ve adapted to life as an infant the hospital deems you ready for life on your own. After all, you’ve demonstrated the ability to hop to the bathroom and take a shit. That same IV which initiated the adventure is removed and the staff insists that you leave by wheelchair. “Thanks folks. Keep it real!”

Currently I’m in a holding pattern at step eight. Time for another set of dips I guess.