The weekend before I had surgery to correct Median Arcuate Ligament Syndrome was an anxious one. You'd think that a surgical veteran like me wouldn't contend with those pre-op jitters. You'd be wrong. Sunday morning I even had a nightmare about the surgery. I'm not even sure what it was about. I just remember waking in a cold sweat absolutely positive that I had narrowly escaped some terrifying fate. tried to think positively. I reminded myself countless times that day that I knew what was coming, that I would be fine. In the end though, a lot was going to be different about this surgery, at least on the surface.
This would be the first time that the decision to have surgery and the signature on the consent form would be all mine. That was just too strange to me. Having all of that responsibility also meant that if anything happened or the procedure didn't go as planned, I would have to live with the consequences. Sometimes, being a grown up is way overrated!
This would also be the first time that my beloved surgeon Dr. M. wouldn't be doing my surgery. Not that he could've, he's a bone guy, a pediatric bone guy. Not so helpful when you're looking to do abdominal surgery. Still, I found myself missing him that day. I liked Dr. B. well enough, but one office visit cannot create the relationship I and my parents built with Dr, M. A relationship made of 20 years of quaterly office visits, clinic visits and of course the surgeries. As a small child, I had surgery almost every summer. That is a lot of time for you to get comfortable with someone. That lack of familarity with Dr. B.threw me a bit on surgery eve. At the end of the day, I knew I was in good hands. Dr. B. is at least nationally if not internationally known as an expert in GP. I also knew that anytime I could nap in the middle of the day should be looked at as a gift!
The morning of June 18, my brother and I braved an especially packed rush-hour train and made it to Big Academic Medical Center just at my "call time" of eight. After waiting for nearly an hour in the waiting room, we were herded up to the pre-op area. He helped me change into a gown and slippers, lifted me onto the gurney, and then we settled in to wait. We talked about the meaning of life. Eventually a nurse came, looked fruitlessly for a good vein to start an IV, and promptly left to find someone known for mining those tiny veins. Soon, the expert came and placed an IV. Dr. B. made an appearance, flipping through my chart, introducing himself to my brother, asking if we had questions. Then he was gone. Next the anesthesiology team came in. We went over my history and when they heard that I had a history of reflux, they brought me a medication that tasted akin to what I imagine turpentine tastes like, with a sour lemon aftertaste. Delightful Next it was time to sign the consent, don a stylish hat and say goodbye to my brother. This was it!
Because of the reflux, they let me sit up until we got into the OR. Once they moved me over to the table, they kept my head elevated with foam. One thing I had forgotten in the time since my last surgery was how cold they keep the OR. Thank goodness for toast warm blankets. The room was a hive of activity. The anesthesiologist worked on positioning me, a nurse strapped boots to my legs to help with my circulation and prevent blood clots. (Those things were amazing! I had never had warm feet until they put them on.) Somewhere in the crowd I spotted Dr B. Then the plastic-smelling mask was over my face and I was asleep.
The next thing I remember was that it hurt to breathe. I cried for meds, and eventually was a bit more comfortable. I saw Dr. B. who promised I would soon be in a room and given clear liquids. Soon ended up being an interminable SIX HOURS later! I was never so happy to see a hospital bed.
By now, I had figured out why it hurt to breathe. I had four small incisions scattered over the upper left part of my stomach. These looked like deep paper cuts. I also had one bigger incison where the "main port" went. This was pretty close to my diaphragm, which is why breathing was so unpleasant. Dr. B. had told me that the first 12 hours would be the most painful. He was right. Over the next three days, PT helped me get into my chair, respiratory did treatments every four hours and I was kept comfortable. Aside from having to bring home a souvenir appliance and the logistics inherent in it, I did really well. I didn't feel better yet but was willing to give it time. Dr. B. had told me that it could take up to three months to notice improvement. I wasn't sure I could wait that long, but promised I'd try to be patient.
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