ideologyhunter
Contributor
Yesterday I had surgery to put a stent into the politeal artery in my right leg. (It's an artery that branches off from the femoral on each side. It's on the underside of your knee joint.) I'll have to get the left leg done after this first incision heals.
After I knew I had surgery coming up, I turned into the old geezer who has to tell everyone about his joints, bones, arteries, etc. I don't care for those guys when I'm at the coffee shop. After a minute, I've heard enough. So, after I realized what I was turning into, I slammed on the brakes and disciplined myself. I forced myself to talk to people without bringing up my upcoming surgery.
I also decided to write about it here, because you who read this can instantly skip to something else if you don't want to hear my story. And there might be someone with a similar condition who has the decision to make about surgery. So I intend to tell you about the unpleasant parts and the parts that turned out better than I expected.
As a preview, here are a few things that changed me in the past few weeks:
1- I've now taken fentanyl, propofol, and oxycodone. Talk about bucket list fulfillment.
2- I've always hated IVs placed in me, but I've gotten used to them and no longer dread them. I've had 3 recently: once for a procedure on 9/8 that the doctor halted partway in (more about that later), once for a CT scan, and once yesterday for the OR.
3- I got used to teams of nurses and interns working over me as I lay back like, essentially, buck naked roadkill. They position you, clip you, mark you with special markers, paint you with cold disinfectant lotions, poke you. I learned to trust all those people (I had great teams at every procedure -- hope you do, too, if you have this to go through.)
Brief back story: Last year an ultrasound found thrombus (clot material) in both my legs, in the popliteal arteries. My other major blood vessels had normal results, knock on wood. This year, on a recheck, I was assigned to a new doctor, a vascular surgeon, and he told me I needed stents placed, because otherwise a loose piece of clot could mean I'd have a leg amputated, or I could drop dead, depending on where the clot lodged.
On 9/8, the surgeon tried the non-invasive method on me. This meant a small puncture wound in the groin, which the surgeon uses to introduce a stent tube into the femoral, then across the base of the aorta (where it splits) and down into the opposite femoral and down to the knee. In other words, a puncture in my left groin to treat the right popliteal. I know -- sounds crazy -- but if they try to tap the right femoral and go straight down, it creates a risky or even impossible angle for tube insertion.
To backtrack, when you have this kind of procedure, you start with imaging, in my case both ultrasound and a CT scan. This gives the surgeon a good idea of the terrain. My doctor told me that my aorta displayed more curvature than your everyday aorta, but he still thought he could get the tube through.
On the procedure day, I showed up an hour early. In pre-op, you change into nothing but the open-backed gown. They check all your vital signs, put in the IV, and wheel you down to the procedure room, which has an enormous TV screen. They will inject you with dye, use imaging on the spot, and guide the tube while they track it on the screen.
But wait -- there's stuff I left out. After they wheel you in, you slide from the rolling bed to a narrow operating table. Then they do the final preps on you, and they work so fast you don't have time to be embarrassed. At least I didn't. Yes, they shave your pubic hair for this procedure. So, three minutes of snip, buzz, snip. Oddly, they left a curly little patch on either side of Mr. Johnson. For two weeks, I had a Larry Fine dick. Just picture those balls of hair above each of his ears. And his big bulbous nose was -- you get it. (Yesterday's nurse was more thorough, as she shaved off both the hairballs. I guess it's now a Curly Howard dick. It hasn't said "Whoob, whoob, whoob!" yet.)
Then they wiped down and painted my entire pubic region and more (from maybe an inch below the navel to the top five inches of my thighs) with a cold, jelly-like antiseptic that is colored bright orange. I took one look and told them, "Great, you've put Trump's face on my crotch." I was given a local anesthetic for the procedure, although I was told later that one of the drugs was fentanyl, which I thought sounded strong for a local. Midway through I was very spacey. Out of the fog came my surgeon's face. He told me that he had stopped the procedure because he couldn't find a safe way to get the tube through my curvy aorta. Back to the recovery room, and I went home that night.
Recovery from a puncture procedure isn't bad. The actual puncture site is small, you get to shower right away, and you are restricted from lifting anything more than 10 pounds for a while.
A week later, I had to show up for Pre-Surgery Testing, because now the plan was a conventional surgery in the OR with general (i.e. total unconsciousness) anesthesia. For Pre-Surgery Testing, they do the EKG on you, with all the sticky pads on your chest. They draw blood to analyze all the panels they need to know about.
Yesterday was my big day. This time the prep time was two hours. Change into the gown, vital signs checked, IV placed, Curly Howard created down below. Then the team comes to meet you, one by one: first the anesthesiologist. I had a list of questions for him -- would I be given fentanyl? propofol? (Definitely yes on propofol.) Would he tell me just before he sent me into dreamland? (He said he would, but I probably would not remember it, and he was right.) For my final question, I asked him if, when I was coming out of it, Trump was still President, could he give me an extra hit of something? He said he would meet me in the parking lot for that.
My surgeon came in. I had already had a sit-down with him, with a written list of questions, so I only had a few more to ask.
(BIG ADVICE: come to any consults with a notepad and have your questions in writing, with space to write the answers. It's invaluable. You'll never remember everything, otherwise. I also provided him with a xerox of the questions, so we could go over it together.)
The OR nurse came in, and also the anesthesiology nurse, and I asked whatever I could think of. Then, at about 11:40 A.M., they wheeled me back to the OR.
This is enough for now. I'll put in a second installment soon.
After I knew I had surgery coming up, I turned into the old geezer who has to tell everyone about his joints, bones, arteries, etc. I don't care for those guys when I'm at the coffee shop. After a minute, I've heard enough. So, after I realized what I was turning into, I slammed on the brakes and disciplined myself. I forced myself to talk to people without bringing up my upcoming surgery.
I also decided to write about it here, because you who read this can instantly skip to something else if you don't want to hear my story. And there might be someone with a similar condition who has the decision to make about surgery. So I intend to tell you about the unpleasant parts and the parts that turned out better than I expected.
As a preview, here are a few things that changed me in the past few weeks:
1- I've now taken fentanyl, propofol, and oxycodone. Talk about bucket list fulfillment.
2- I've always hated IVs placed in me, but I've gotten used to them and no longer dread them. I've had 3 recently: once for a procedure on 9/8 that the doctor halted partway in (more about that later), once for a CT scan, and once yesterday for the OR.
3- I got used to teams of nurses and interns working over me as I lay back like, essentially, buck naked roadkill. They position you, clip you, mark you with special markers, paint you with cold disinfectant lotions, poke you. I learned to trust all those people (I had great teams at every procedure -- hope you do, too, if you have this to go through.)
Brief back story: Last year an ultrasound found thrombus (clot material) in both my legs, in the popliteal arteries. My other major blood vessels had normal results, knock on wood. This year, on a recheck, I was assigned to a new doctor, a vascular surgeon, and he told me I needed stents placed, because otherwise a loose piece of clot could mean I'd have a leg amputated, or I could drop dead, depending on where the clot lodged.
On 9/8, the surgeon tried the non-invasive method on me. This meant a small puncture wound in the groin, which the surgeon uses to introduce a stent tube into the femoral, then across the base of the aorta (where it splits) and down into the opposite femoral and down to the knee. In other words, a puncture in my left groin to treat the right popliteal. I know -- sounds crazy -- but if they try to tap the right femoral and go straight down, it creates a risky or even impossible angle for tube insertion.
To backtrack, when you have this kind of procedure, you start with imaging, in my case both ultrasound and a CT scan. This gives the surgeon a good idea of the terrain. My doctor told me that my aorta displayed more curvature than your everyday aorta, but he still thought he could get the tube through.
On the procedure day, I showed up an hour early. In pre-op, you change into nothing but the open-backed gown. They check all your vital signs, put in the IV, and wheel you down to the procedure room, which has an enormous TV screen. They will inject you with dye, use imaging on the spot, and guide the tube while they track it on the screen.
But wait -- there's stuff I left out. After they wheel you in, you slide from the rolling bed to a narrow operating table. Then they do the final preps on you, and they work so fast you don't have time to be embarrassed. At least I didn't. Yes, they shave your pubic hair for this procedure. So, three minutes of snip, buzz, snip. Oddly, they left a curly little patch on either side of Mr. Johnson. For two weeks, I had a Larry Fine dick. Just picture those balls of hair above each of his ears. And his big bulbous nose was -- you get it. (Yesterday's nurse was more thorough, as she shaved off both the hairballs. I guess it's now a Curly Howard dick. It hasn't said "Whoob, whoob, whoob!" yet.)
Then they wiped down and painted my entire pubic region and more (from maybe an inch below the navel to the top five inches of my thighs) with a cold, jelly-like antiseptic that is colored bright orange. I took one look and told them, "Great, you've put Trump's face on my crotch." I was given a local anesthetic for the procedure, although I was told later that one of the drugs was fentanyl, which I thought sounded strong for a local. Midway through I was very spacey. Out of the fog came my surgeon's face. He told me that he had stopped the procedure because he couldn't find a safe way to get the tube through my curvy aorta. Back to the recovery room, and I went home that night.
Recovery from a puncture procedure isn't bad. The actual puncture site is small, you get to shower right away, and you are restricted from lifting anything more than 10 pounds for a while.
A week later, I had to show up for Pre-Surgery Testing, because now the plan was a conventional surgery in the OR with general (i.e. total unconsciousness) anesthesia. For Pre-Surgery Testing, they do the EKG on you, with all the sticky pads on your chest. They draw blood to analyze all the panels they need to know about.
Yesterday was my big day. This time the prep time was two hours. Change into the gown, vital signs checked, IV placed, Curly Howard created down below. Then the team comes to meet you, one by one: first the anesthesiologist. I had a list of questions for him -- would I be given fentanyl? propofol? (Definitely yes on propofol.) Would he tell me just before he sent me into dreamland? (He said he would, but I probably would not remember it, and he was right.) For my final question, I asked him if, when I was coming out of it, Trump was still President, could he give me an extra hit of something? He said he would meet me in the parking lot for that.
My surgeon came in. I had already had a sit-down with him, with a written list of questions, so I only had a few more to ask.
(BIG ADVICE: come to any consults with a notepad and have your questions in writing, with space to write the answers. It's invaluable. You'll never remember everything, otherwise. I also provided him with a xerox of the questions, so we could go over it together.)
The OR nurse came in, and also the anesthesiology nurse, and I asked whatever I could think of. Then, at about 11:40 A.M., they wheeled me back to the OR.
This is enough for now. I'll put in a second installment soon.
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