The right sock nurse.
her perspective
By Sharla Gorder
My socks were three sizes too big, and my gown opened in the back. The room was chilly, but the nurses were warm. I tried to relax, but my pillow was all wrong. The nurse on my left adjusted it for me. Better.
This was not what I expected. Somehow, I imagined that this “procedure” would be akin to getting a cavity filled — or at worst, a root canal. But this seemed like a bigger deal than that.
My husband and I had arrived at the hospital an hour before check-in — as though getting there early would get it over with quicker. No such luck. There was so much to do: paperwork to be filled out, blood to be drawn and an EKG to administer. Finally, we sat in the crowded waiting room, anxious for my turn.
Eventually, a nurse called my name. She said that I could have one person come back with me — as though I could choose any one of the folks in the waiting room — so I looked around to make my selection. In the end, I did choose my husband, but it was close. There was an old guy in the corner who looked a lot like Marcus Welby, MD. He would’ve been great to have around.
After a full wardrobe change, I found myself propped up in a mechanical bed in my hospital gown, staring at my floppy XXL no-skid socks. As if the nurses could read my mind, the one on my right gently pulled up my right sock while the nurse on my left pulled up my left. This, for some reason, was so comforting.
But then they had to go and ruin it by coming at me again with needles. I was so utterly dehydrated — no fluids for nearly 22 hours — they couldn’t find a vein for the IV. They poked four different holes in my hands and arms before finding an accommodating vessel.
Later, when they administered the million-question pre-op quiz — Have you had anything to eat or drink since midnight? Did you shower with antibacterial soap twice? Is there any metal in your body? — I had to laugh when they asked, “Do you have any open wounds or sores?”
I looked down at my bandaged arms and replied, “Only the ones inflicted since I got here.”
The anesthesiologist popped in on his way to somewhere important. My husband asked what anesthesia would be administered. Words like fentanyl, propofol and ketamine were cast casually my way. My blood pressure shot up like a rocket. Isn’t fentanyl the drug that can kill you on contact? (Even typing the word just now seemed risky.) And doesn’t propofol kill pop stars, beloved actors and 66-year-old women undergoing minor surgery? And ketamine, that actually sounded like it could be kinda fun if only I weren’t going to be too unconscious to enjoy it.
Oh, my.
My ENT was the next to stop by. I had heard that surgeons tend to have excellent people skills as long as the patient is solidly unconscious. When mine came by, I was wide awake and pretty anxious, but he was surprisingly warm, with kind eyes. He asked if he could pray with us. This was either very endearing or very alarming. Was he chickening out? Still, I liked the idea of a surgeon praying to God instead of claiming to be one. (I gotta stop binge-watching House.)
And then there was the surgery itself. Nothing to report there. Did I mention fentanyl, propofol and ketamine? I remember nothing until I woke up on a gurney looking into the face of cherubic young PACU nurse. She smiled and asked me if she could get me anything.
And this is the best part. I ordered a venti triple-shot cappuccino with extra foam right there from my gurney. Or maybe I just managed to squeak out — “coffee please.” I had been in withdrawal for 12 hours.
She handed me a steaming cup of java, adjusted my pillow, and pulled up my right sock.
I pulled up my left.
A thousand thanks to Right Sock Nurse and all the other medical professionals at Baptist Hospital — especially my surgeon, who was way nicer and probably just as skilled as Gregory House. Every single person I interacted with treated me with kindness and compassion. I’d do it all over again — but please don’t make me.
