I spent the morning writing e-mails, chatting with the Young Dutchman, and just generally trying to keep my mind off things, before making my way to the hospital in time for my 11:30 AM check-in.
Then the anaesthesiologist came in to talk to me and said, "For 9 out of 10 people it feels like cold ice water working its way up your arm, and for 1 out of 10 people it really burns and is quite painful. I've done 3 so far this morning and haven't had anyone with the burning yet, so I suppose I'm due." Thanks buddy, you just HAD to say that, didn't you?
So at 2PM, they took me down to the surgical suite, where it was really cold in there. Apparently they purposefully keep it cold. And so they had me get up on the gurney, put an IV line in the back of my hand, started a hydration drip, and then he injects the anaesthetic, and all of a sudden I'm yelling, "IT BURNS! IT BURNS! OUCH, IT BURNS!!!!!" Totally, my arm was on fire, it was really pretty painful. But before I could even really think to move or escape or just do anything about the hot acid going up my arm, I was in the recovery room. None of that "Count backwards from 10" nonsense, so far as I knew I'd been magically teleported.
Seriously, I have never been so startled in my life, it was like truly no time had passed. The news that I had been out for hours and the surgery was finished was perhaps the most surprising news I've ever heard. Total shock. So after about a half-hour in the recovery room (where I was speaking Spanish, for some reason), I got wheeled back up to my room.
The guy had also said he couldn't be sure how I would respond when I woke up, that I might feel weepy or hung over or foggy....I woke up pretty alert and for some reason OBSESSED with calling my brother, but about nothing important. I can't remember what I wanted to talk to him about, but it was along the lines of what brand of paper towel he preferred. And I kept asking everyone if I'd already spoken to my brother and were they sure I hadn't, but I kept asking people about every two minutes. I'm sure they were kind of bemused, because I was constantly asking, "So I haven't spoken to my brother yet. Are you sure? So I should call my brother, right? Because I haven't spoken to him. But I need to call my brother. Because I have to talk to him. But can you tell me, have I called my brother already?" Repeat in a loop for about 20 minutes...
I can't quite explain it, but it was suddenly like talking to my brother was the most essential thing ever. Luckily, they wheeled me back to my room soon after, and so I was able to call my brother's cell phone and catch him at the grocery store. (This was after trying to call his office a few times, because I'd forgotten that it was Memorial Day, a holiday in the US). Where we probably talked about paper towels. But it somehow reassured me to talk to him, and people are pretty indulgent of you when you've just come out of surgery, particularly if your most pressing request is to talk to your brother. About paper towels.
My mother then reminded me I should call my father, and then I called the Young Dutchman, who said "See? I told you it would be fine!" and then started moaning about girls. Good to know that even post-surgery, some things never change.
Apparently the oxygen level in my blood was a bit low, so they put me on oxygen (so I had those little tubes in my nose), and they've got these funny pressure cuffs on my legs that keep squeezing them to keep up my circulation. Kind of weird to sleep when something keeps squeezing your legs, but it actually feels rather nice. So I guess I needed that.
The surgeon came in to see me after a bit to talk about how well everything went, so that was good. He seemed happy, so I guess I am too. They used my hamstring in the end (there had been a risk that if the hamstring hadn't worked out, they would have gone for patella) and I had an 8mm graft, which is apparently longer than normal. Not sure what the significance of that is though...
The best bit was that I had no secondary injuries, no torn meniscus or any bone damage, which apparently he'd been worried about, and would have really complicated things if that had turned up. There had been no indication on the MRI that I had a torn meniscus, but apparently it's just one of those things you don't know until you get in there.
Despite not eating all day, I had no appetite for dinner, but they made me eat ice cream, which did feel good on my raspy, sore throat. (They'd warned me that might happen if they stuck a tube down my throat during surgery). But mostly I just felt like sleeping, which I could do since they were keeping me in the hospital overnight. Apparently the surgery went so well they could have sent me home that afternoon, but decided to keep me just as a precaution.
My mother went home at around 10 PM, and then, at last with the room to myself, I called the Tall South African. I don't know why I hadn't wanted to call him with my mother there, but I was glad to finally have some privacy. He'd texted me that morning to wish me luck with the surgery, and I'd promised to call him once I'd woken up. He seemed tired when I called, yet kept thanking me for calling, I got the impression that he'd actually been worried and thinking about me all day. How sweet, eh?
At last though, I just had to sigh with relief at the best part about it all...after months of being nervous about my upcoming surgery, it was finally over...
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