In Emergency - Part 2

I've already forgotten the name of my angel. Of all the things I can recall of these days, her name eludes me. Her essence does not. She swept aside my torturers with a quick word and a firm hand - her needle at the ready. She is gently brushing the hair from my forehead as the morphine seeps into my bloodstream. She calls me dear. And sweetie.

I do not know how I arrived here in the hallway, on the gurney. My angel is telling me they are trying to find a doctor for me. It's just crazy here tonight. Tonight. Where did day go, I wonder. I am able to wonder. The morphine has both anchored me and allowed me to be free again. I am also aware. My gurney is opposite the doorway of a room. I can hear and see the elderly wife of an elderly man berate him. She hits him with something. Her purse I think. The morphine does not let me feel shock but I feel Eric behind me shift uncomfortably. Security is called and the wife screams obscenities as she is pulled from the room. This is more than I can fathom at this moment.

My angel is telling me that the orthopaedic surgeon on duty is in the clinic. My gurney starts moving in that direction. I know this hallway well - the "clinic" is where I have had my arm casted no less than 5 times in the last 12 months. The clinic is almost like a second home. And who should be there but John, my left- and right-hand man.

Beside John is Michael. I think. I'm pretty sure it's Michael. I'm certain he is an orthopaedic surgeon. I'm doubly certain he has just returned from Afghanistan. The pieces of his life trickle through the morphine. But who is reporting them? And why?

Michael looks so tired, already. He is reading my file. John is filling in the bits he knows. Michael leans close to me and asks me: what happened? I talk about the coming of the pain. I talk about the onslaught of the pain. He asks me what I feel now. I say numbness. He looks confused. But you can feel this, right? Yes, but it is numb. He stares at me. If it's numb then you can't feel it. I feel anger build in me. How can this be happening? It is like I am arguing with my 4-year old instead of talking to a doctor. The veil of morphine is lifting. Numb does not mean without feeling, I want to shout. Anyway, I feel fine now. I refuse to look at him.

Michael shifts some paperwork, talks into his computer mike, and instructs John to cast me again. The danger has passed. I seem ok.

John is so gentle with the gauze - my eyes thank him. Michael is talking to Eric as John lays the first strip of hot plaster on my arm. My angel has left me. There is only ice-blue and blood-red and black. The whimper comes before the scream. The scream comes from someone outside my body - I am suspended - begging Eric to help me, to make it stop. I am begging and screaming at John, at Michael, at Eric. I lose feeling in my left arm. Then my right arm, then my right leg. I can't feel either of my feet. I am going into shock. I don't comprehend this logical chain of events. I am beyond logic.

Michael calls emerg across the hall - but we discharged her from emerg to orthopaedics. Shit, I hear him say. I can't have morphine unless I've been admitted or am in Emergency. John is pushing my gurney to emerg, fast. Michael is dialing St. Paul's hospital as we cross the hallway. Incredibly, I hear him laughing. He and Dr. G are sharing some joke. Michael has just come back from Afghanistan - my little drama must pale in significance.

I catch sight of Eric's face - there is a surprising degree of control there. I am another plane now, moaning low and deeply. When my angel reappears and rushes me back into emerg, I know relief is close. I just need to be inside the emerg doors and she can give me morphine. She stops in the nearest hallway and injects me quickly. It takes no more than 30 seconds to

flood my body. I breathe.

Michael is suddenly back and, beside him, Dr. D. Dr. D speaks in the softest of voices, Hi, Fiona. how are you feeling now? My tongue is thick and slow. Tired, I reply. Dr. D is holding my arm and chatting with Eric as he gently wraps it in gauze and padding and a soft sling. This can happen sometimes, Dr. D is telling Eric. There is some talk of opening my hand up for what sounds like bloodletting, to relieve the pressure. She doesn't need a plaster cast - we'll leave it like this. Dr. D has been summoned from dinner. He is not on call.

Something is happening in this moment between me and Dr. D and Eric. It has been almost exactly a year since he refused to treat me. There is a strange reparation taking place. There is more than morphine spreading peace and light through me. Perhaps.

We arrive home some time after dinner. The house is dark. An entire day has passed. Only a single day has passed. Eric walks me to bed and the boys quietly watch me ascend the stairs. I am fine, completely and totally fine, and will only continue to get better. My pain is manageable and within a day or two requires no management at all. My cast had simply been too tight. My skin and flesh squeezed to bursting - my nerve endings raw from surgery and my pain receptors on super-charge. Small things.

	Rare Earth - I just want to Celebrate .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

In Surgery - Part 2: What a Wonderful World

It's been 3 months since my arthroscopy. I can't get my surgeon's MOA on the phone. She doesn't reply to my emails. I have realized that a surgeon is only as good as his hands and only as available as his MOA. I've now passed the one year anniversary of my diagnosis and my every waking thought is about having my surgery and getting on with my life. This holding pattern is purgatory.

I have learned this past year that protocol is a bit of a sham. I have no intention of waiting in some imaginary queue. When I do get Ms. P on the phone, I lie: Dr. G was clear that I was to have my surgery 1 month after my arthroscopy. Ms. P taps on her keyboard and replies that she doesn't see any notes to that effect but if he told you that, then...oh, I have an opening for February 17th. It is that easy. After all the fighting and waiting and suffering, it comes down to a single, well-timed phone call. The lie was more of a partial truth anyway. What Dr. G actually said was that I needed to wait at least a month before my next surgery. I feel like I have reached the summit of a mountain. February 17th is 3 weeks away. I am almost giddy.

Dr. G meets me in the nurse's office, where she and I are completing my pre-op paperwork. He smiles and says: so you're ready to do this, are you? It's as if he doesn't know I have late-stage KD. It's as if he's forgotten that we last talked about this surgery 8 months ago. I am struck again by the irony of a surgeon not comprehending the loss of the use of one's hands. I just smile.

Dr. G brandishes a menacing-looking red marker and starts mapping my arm. Some circles here, a line or two there, a definitive "L" on the back of my hand. God forbid they get the wrong arm. I am not comforted by this extra security measure. See you in there, he says over his shoulder as he goes to prep.

I am a little disappointed that Brian is not my anaesthetist. We had talked about round 2 back in October and he'd said he'd be around. I actually don't have just one anaesthetist, I have a team - a team-in-training, it turns out. I tell them about my last nerve block wearing off after 3 hours. They exchange glances with each other and say they'll top it up.

I am decidedly wasted when they wheel my bed into the OR. This will be a longer surgery than before. And noisier. Electric saws, pliers, and chisels. Ok, the chisel could be my imagination - but I'll never forget the crunching sound of the pliers or the whirr of the saw blade cutting through bone. Or the bits of bone and flesh that spit out of the wound. I don't get the tv screen for this one. I am grateful.

My surgery is called a PRC and involves the removal of the proximal row of three bones, one of which is the lunate - the source of all my trouble. The surgery allows for the distal row to slide down into the vacated space, in turn helping convert the existing joint to something more akin to a hinge. Like a door.

There is a point where I can feel incredible pressure and my OR anaesthetist slides a syringe into my IV. The pressure fades away.

In recovery, I am quite helpless. I think my gown is twisted. One of my breasts is hanging out. I don't really notice or care. A nurse discreetly shifts and tucks my gown until I am covered. In an hour or so, this same nurse will try to help me put on my underwear and bra. I am too stoned to stand and my right arm is like jelly. She has to remind me to hold it up because otherwise I don't remember it is there and it thuds to the side of the bed. Getting dressed seems to take forever and makes me giggle like a little girl. God bless nurses.

Incredibly, I've been discharged. This time, I have the pain killer prescription filled. This time, when we get to the already-full ferry, my husband declares us a medical emergency and a vacant spot magically appears. We learn that this spot is always left free for any emergency. I store that little nugget away in my cloudy mind.

I am three bones lighter, high as a kite, and on my way home to rest and recovery. Hallelujah.

What a Wonderful World:

	Louis Armstrong - What A Wonderful World .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine