My Story, Episode V: The Thyroid Strikes Back

The first double-doors opened, and then once the nurse hit a button on the wall, the second set of doors opened automatically, and all I could see without my glasses on was this:

The Bridge of the USS St. John's Hospital.

Well, not really.  But it was bright, everything was white, there were monitors on the wall behind a nurse's station.  Very surreal stuff.

We hung a quick right and went through another set of double-doors, and then we had arrived at the Operating Room.  The dreaded OR.

Artist's rendition of OR.

I could see the large lights hanging from the ceiling, and I could feel the freezing cold.  Dr. O'Neill, who we established earlier was half-Filipino (I, on the other hand, am 100% Filipino), mentioned that one of the OR nurses on my case was Filipino as well.  So I said hello.  Dr. Sigari then chimed in that his college roommate was Filipino, and went by the nickname Lechon (which means whole roasted pig, a celebratory Filipino feast dish).  I joked that he shouldn't talk about that since I had been fasting since midnight.  I think I got a decent laugh out of that one.

Up to this point, Dr. O'Neill had been telling me that he had started giving me something to relax, but I didn't really feel like anything was hitting me.  Maybe that meant it was working.  In any case, this was the point when he started to lean into my ear and talk to me.

Dr. O'Neill: "So, Walter, where do you want to go?  What's your favorite city in the country?"

Walter: "Umm...New Orleans!"

Dr. O'Neill: "OK, great.  So when you get there, what do want to do?"

Walter: "Well, I'd eat food...and then..."

Then I woke up in the recovery room.  

Anesthesia is a funny thing.  It is very deceptive.  As soon as I came to, mentally I thought I was pretty much 100% alert and functioning.  I spent some time with the post-op nurse, whose name was Destiny (how...profound).  While I recalled having some full conversations with her, she only recalled me mumbling various attempts at sentences.  When I was more alert, my parents and Emily came in to say hello.  I remember bragging to them how great how felt and how alert I was, proud that I wasn't going to be one of those people who mumbles embarrassing or offensive things coming off of anesthesia.  Apparently, this translated into me repeatedly using the word "lucid" to describe my mental state.

This would be my last smile for about 14 hours...look at me, so naive of the pain that was to come.

In any case, a little after 10pm it came time for my parents to leave, as they had to pick up my sister and her family at LAX and bring them back home, as they were flying in to spend the weekend with me as I recovered.  This left Emily with me, and I was so glad she was there.  I remember feeling bad as it was probably pretty late at night and she was probably getting sleepy, but in any case, she stayed with me until it was time for me to get transported to my observation room.  I said goodbye to Destiny, who game Emily my eventual room number.  Emily headed down to the room, and I waited for the transport guy.

He came over and then started wheeling me down.  I took an elevator to the first floor, and then I arrived at my home for the next day.  It was right when I got here that sadness hit me...the anesthesia was wearing off, and quickly.

I immediately became overcome with nausea, and vomited into the kidney bean shaped bin that I think is supposed to be for brushing your teeth.  Emily, poor Emily, helped me with that.  She left around half an hour past midnight, and I was left with two not-so-good nurses, and screamers down the hall.

Throughout the night/early morning, I would awaken to screams of patients coming from other rooms.  Some of the screams were obviously over-dramatic, others were from patients who were sadly not at full mental health.  Whatever the case, it did not make for a pleasant start of my recovery.  I remember being awake more than being asleep, and started to see the sky get lighter outside my window as the sun came up.

-W