"Mr. Scheske, wake up. Wake up, Mr. Scheske."
"Wha, oh, ow, what the? Ouch. Oh, ow."
"A lot of pain?"
"Oh, yeah, oh. Ouch, ouch."
"The carbon dioxide gas they used to blow up your stomach has that effect on some people."
"Ouch, oh. Man, it feels like two possums are clawing, gnawing, and copulating in my stomach. Help me, please."
That's how things started after my gall bladder was removed in a surgery that everyone, including my older secretary, assured me is a piece of cake. The above dialogue is fairly accurate, except the possum comment. I wasn't nearly lucid or pain-free enough to come up with anything witty coherent.
After the pain subsided a bit, they took me to post-op, where the wild gurney ride (I think we were going 35 mph, dropping to minus-5 mph, then shooting back up to 35 mph, repeatedly) almost made me hurl. All I wanted to do was sleep, but the nurses wouldn't let me. "As long as you're here, we keep checking your vitals," which, I think, is code for, "If you're well enough to imitate a dead person, you're well enough to go home, so if you want some sleep, get yourself home." So I urinated, ambulated, walked without falling, and did other things taxing on a six-month old, and they let me leave. I spent the rest of the day on Darvocet and the couch.
I feel a lot better this morning. At least the nausea, dizziness, and slight headaches are gone so far. My stomach still hurts, but I think I can leave the Darvocet waters for the milder waters of Motrin.
Notwithstanding the slight feeling that I was rushed out of there (which could totally be in my mind, since I was hardly in my mind), my local hospital did a great job (as far as I know; when do left-behind sponges show up in your system?). I'd give 'em a 9 on a scale of 1-10.
No blogging for now, unless the above counts.
