Broken foot bones

Hi blog friends,
This should be a fun post because I’m writing on my Droid under the influence of pain, Vicodin, and love.

I had foot surgery Friday and like any self-respecting journalism scholar, I thought of ways to turn my discomfort into fun reading material.

In true worst case scenario loving form, I told the bf he had my permission to date a new hip girl if I didn’t make it through surgery. Apparently that was not the last exchange he wanted before I went under in the morning. So I was like: sowwy, I promise to live long enough so you get to nurse me back to health if that’s reeeally what you want. (I’m such an ungrateful wench.)

Sorry TR!

So Mom and Jimbo, the caretaking duo, came to my new apartment at 7 am. It was a lovely DC morning. I showed them around my new digs and kissed my shoe collection farewell.

In the surgery prep, I had this hilarious nurse who asked if I had eaten anything past midnight. Nope! I said. They tell you not to because it messes with your anesthesia. If there is one thing I don’t want to go wrong it’s the stuff keeping me clunked out while they saw my bones. “No cupcakes, tuna fish, bagels?”
No, I said and laughed. She’s like “well just checking, those are all things people admitted to eating after saying they didn’t have anything.”
I had forgotten to take out my cartilage ear piercing too. That launched the nurse into a comment of how she used to be able to see everyone’s piercings just by looking at them, but now they get piercings done in unmentionable places. You can’t have any metal on your body in case they use a cauterizer, because you might get burned. I didn’t want to think about the grisly tools they were about to use on my bleeding foot so I just said “Ok, let’s roll!”

Next I talked to my doctor and his resident, who were great. Then came the anesthesiologist. They mentioned taking blood work. Since I get faint normally and knowing I hadn’t eaten since 8 last night, I figured I’d mention that.
I was like “it’s not a mental thing, I’m just prone to getting woozy.”
My doctor laughed and said, “well, we know it’s a mental thing. You can hold my hand.”
I said, “Ok, it’s fine. I’ll be ok.”

The anesthesiologist told my spunky nurse to get ammonia packets ready. Umm like smelling salts? I was starting to feel like I was surrounded by some overprotective family. She tapped a vein on the side of my wrist. I thought, ughh you want one on that bony side? She’s was a profesh though, and I felt just a little prick.
My doctor said, “ew your hand is all sweaty.” Then before I knew it the nurse swooped in with the ammonia packet. Oooff I said as my nostrils tingled and my pupils probably dilated from the intense whiff.
“Ok, I’m alert,” I said unable to tell if I was dizzy or not.
Nope, she wanted me to be super prepared and made the nurse give me another one.
My doctor is like “Really? You give it to her before she faints? She looks fine. She’s not even pale.”
Before she finished getting the IV hooked up, she made the nurse give me another hit.
“Sorry, she made me!” the nurse said.
Now I have brain damage from huffing ammonia, but damnit I didn’t faint.

After that whole spectacle it was hard to tell if I would have gotten light headed at all. So it was time to walk over to the scary OR. Another nurse took my glasses. Being blind really took the fear out of me because I was immediately in a fuzzy state. The room was freezing and had the big operating lights. My doctor said they are cold to keep away the threat of bacteria. Then I discovered the best invention ever: blanket heaters. They loaded me up with a pile of toasty blankets like the baby Jesus. I was like let’s do this! Actually there was no sleepy drug countdown. I lay back and woke up in the recovery room with my glasses back on, my foot bandaged and in its special shoe.

The End to Part 1.

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