Medical Fun
Last week I took my husband for his first "you are past fifty so you must..." colonoscopy. We'd been told that the worst part is drinking a gallon of stuff the night before. That proved to be true. We were also told that the sedation would cause my husband to have trouble remembering things that happened during and after the 'procedure'.
Incidentally, on the morning of the procedure the medical staff at the minor surgery clinic always refered to it as a procedure. I don't think I heard the c-word all morning. It was always time to prepare for the procedure, time to have the procedure, he is done with the procedure, he should follow these instructions after the procedure... Do people freak out if you call it what it is?
The sedation did indeed make my husband unable to remember anything. After the procedure I was told to come back to the recovery room. He looked completely out of it---the way he looks when he is in pain and wants to be left alone.
He was not in pain. He didn't want to be left alone. It was just medication.
He was hooked up to several monitors, one of which beeped whenever his heart beat. The faster his heart beat, the higher the pitch of the beep. The nurse could hear it anywhere in the recovery room. Any time the tone would lower the nurse would holler, "Take a deep breathe! Wake up! Open your eyes!" Then she would appear and vigorously pat his legs, remind him to keep his eyes open and breathe and lie on his side. He would nod and open his eyes briefly, take one deep breathe, and roll to his side. Then he would roll back to his back, close his eyes, and allow his heart rate to slip back down.
They would repeat the process.
Somewhere in there the doctor came in and explained the procedure and what they had and had not found and how to spend the rest of the day and what to watch for. My husband seemed coherant and asked good questions and answered questions sensibly. The doctor left. My husband rolled to his back, closed his eyes, and let his heart rate slip. I patted him vigorously and told him to wake up and lie on his side. He asked, "Has the doctor told you anything yet? What did he say?" We repeated this a few times too.
My husband asked when he could go home. The nurse explained the the procedure forces a lot air into your plumbing and that my husband would need to toot before he could go home. 'Toot' was her word. I'm not making this up. That was why she wanted him to lie on his side and breathe and open his eyes, etc. He closed his eyes, but managed to stay on his side.
He asked for a drink and the nurse brought some juice. She said, "Take tiny sips." He took a tiny sip. Then he took a slightly bigger sip. "I SAID TINY SIPS! THAT IS NOT A TINY SIP!"
My husband, chagrined, took much smaller sips and the nurse left. A moment later my husband began to cough. The nurse's voice rang out from another area in recovery, "That's why I told you to take tiny sips. You aren't ready for big sips yet!" I'm beginning to not like this nurse too much.
He moved the cup away from his mouth, resettled on his side, and belched the longest belch I've ever heard come from him (and he's proud of his abilities in this skill set). I began laughing. The belch was followed by a massive 'toot' which had me helpless. He is lying there with his eyes shut looking half gone but expelling air to beat the band. He belches again. He glances at me. He positions himself with his rear in my direction and says, "This one's for you."
After a day of clear liquids and then a gallon of 'stuff' his insides are so clean that there is not even the hint of a scent and I'm sure no match would ever flame up from the flow. So I'm spared paying for my indiscreet laughter.
The nurse apparently heard the tooting and comes to tell us to leave. He is still having trouble thinking clearly and is also still in a hospital gown. I'm told to go immediately to get the car and bring it to the entrance with the passenger door closest to the entrance of the clinic. I can't imagine him knowing how to get his own clothes on at this point, but the nurses seem completely unconcerned about that detail. I conclude that they think they can dress him faster than I can. They are probably right. At least I hope they are planning on him being dressed when they wheel him to the car.
He is dressed. We go for lunch. He asks me if the doctor ever came in to talk with me. I recite the doctor's speech yet again. We repeat this several times more, but we have a very nice Panera Bread lunch. He's pretty cute when he's helpless and feeling good.
Incidentally, on the morning of the procedure the medical staff at the minor surgery clinic always refered to it as a procedure. I don't think I heard the c-word all morning. It was always time to prepare for the procedure, time to have the procedure, he is done with the procedure, he should follow these instructions after the procedure... Do people freak out if you call it what it is?
The sedation did indeed make my husband unable to remember anything. After the procedure I was told to come back to the recovery room. He looked completely out of it---the way he looks when he is in pain and wants to be left alone.
He was not in pain. He didn't want to be left alone. It was just medication.
He was hooked up to several monitors, one of which beeped whenever his heart beat. The faster his heart beat, the higher the pitch of the beep. The nurse could hear it anywhere in the recovery room. Any time the tone would lower the nurse would holler, "Take a deep breathe! Wake up! Open your eyes!" Then she would appear and vigorously pat his legs, remind him to keep his eyes open and breathe and lie on his side. He would nod and open his eyes briefly, take one deep breathe, and roll to his side. Then he would roll back to his back, close his eyes, and allow his heart rate to slip back down.
They would repeat the process.
Somewhere in there the doctor came in and explained the procedure and what they had and had not found and how to spend the rest of the day and what to watch for. My husband seemed coherant and asked good questions and answered questions sensibly. The doctor left. My husband rolled to his back, closed his eyes, and let his heart rate slip. I patted him vigorously and told him to wake up and lie on his side. He asked, "Has the doctor told you anything yet? What did he say?" We repeated this a few times too.
My husband asked when he could go home. The nurse explained the the procedure forces a lot air into your plumbing and that my husband would need to toot before he could go home. 'Toot' was her word. I'm not making this up. That was why she wanted him to lie on his side and breathe and open his eyes, etc. He closed his eyes, but managed to stay on his side.
He asked for a drink and the nurse brought some juice. She said, "Take tiny sips." He took a tiny sip. Then he took a slightly bigger sip. "I SAID TINY SIPS! THAT IS NOT A TINY SIP!"
My husband, chagrined, took much smaller sips and the nurse left. A moment later my husband began to cough. The nurse's voice rang out from another area in recovery, "That's why I told you to take tiny sips. You aren't ready for big sips yet!" I'm beginning to not like this nurse too much.
He moved the cup away from his mouth, resettled on his side, and belched the longest belch I've ever heard come from him (and he's proud of his abilities in this skill set). I began laughing. The belch was followed by a massive 'toot' which had me helpless. He is lying there with his eyes shut looking half gone but expelling air to beat the band. He belches again. He glances at me. He positions himself with his rear in my direction and says, "This one's for you."
After a day of clear liquids and then a gallon of 'stuff' his insides are so clean that there is not even the hint of a scent and I'm sure no match would ever flame up from the flow. So I'm spared paying for my indiscreet laughter.
The nurse apparently heard the tooting and comes to tell us to leave. He is still having trouble thinking clearly and is also still in a hospital gown. I'm told to go immediately to get the car and bring it to the entrance with the passenger door closest to the entrance of the clinic. I can't imagine him knowing how to get his own clothes on at this point, but the nurses seem completely unconcerned about that detail. I conclude that they think they can dress him faster than I can. They are probably right. At least I hope they are planning on him being dressed when they wheel him to the car.
He is dressed. We go for lunch. He asks me if the doctor ever came in to talk with me. I recite the doctor's speech yet again. We repeat this several times more, but we have a very nice Panera Bread lunch. He's pretty cute when he's helpless and feeling good.
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