I just got back from Charleston a little while ago. My wife and kids and I went down to do my post-operative visit with my surgeon. He OKed me to drive and told me I could stop wearing my compression stockings…both welcome. It has been driving me crazy not being able to drive, so I am glad I am free to flame the streets of Columbia again in my Toyota Corolla. I am also glad to see the compression stockings go. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the support, but they just weren’t part of the look I am going for. When I wore pants they weren’t so bad, but when I wore shorts I looked…conspicuously indescribably, ridiculous.
The doctor also left me on the medications I’ve been on, including a cholesterol-lowering drug. I asked him if I needed to take it because I’ve never had any cholesterol issues, nor are there any in my family. On general principle I don’t really want to take medications if I don’t need to. He told me it would prolong the life of my repaired valve and provided all sorts of other health benefits that doctors still don’t understand. He said he takes it just for those benefits. If he takes it and it will help my valve last, sign me up!
Before we left the hospital, I got to do something I’ve been wanting to do since I came home from surgery. I got to go back to some of the first nurses and techs who did my pre-op work up and thank them. They really did help me feel a lot more comfortable about the hospital and my impending surgery. They were genuinely surprised and happy. They said most people don’t remember them. I’d like to do the same for the nurses on the cardiac floor where I spent 4 days, too. There was one male nurse, Kyle, who was really great at helping me while making me feel comfortable asking for and needing help.
Probably the funniest nurses I ran into were the ones who prepared me for surgery. My surgery wasn’t scheduled until the afternoon, but I was asked to be in the waiting room at 8:30 so that if a room opened up, they could prep me early and have me all ready to go. It turns out they took me back around 9:30 and deposited me in what amounted to a large cubical with a bed, monitors, and a privacy screen. It faced a desk manned by nurses with volunteers and doctors coming and going. I felt like a zoo animal on display and I am sure they felt like a living TV watched by the 7 or so people like me waiting to be taken to surgery. A nurse stuck an IV in my arm, took my vitals, and then handed me a gown and a couple of plastic bags. As she pulled my privacy screen across the opening she said, “Take your clothes off, put them in the plastic bags, and put this gown on.” It was at that point that I had no choice by to abandon any modesty.
After I got my gown on I notified the nurse and she returned. She informed me that I needed to be shaved from my neck to my ankles. Needless to say, I was not particularly excited about the prospect. I don’t consider myself to be exceptionally hairy, but I do (or did) have it everywhere (hey, what do you expect, I am a mammal), so I knew they were going to shave everywhere. I was pleased that they left my nether region unshaven, and amused to find that they shaved my legs all around but left my butt completely furry.
My manscaping adventure began with just one nurse and a small electric razor. She was about my mom’s age, and obviously hadn’t had to shave anyone as hairy as me. She kept commenting on how much hair I had and how difficult it was to shave. Her struggle left us both a bit uncomfortable. Her razor kept chattering across my skin that had been dried by the industrial strength antibacterial soap I had to wash with the evening before and also that morning. She found my hairiness so challenging that she had to consult a more experienced nurse…who basically told her to just press harder with the razor. Eventually she had to call for back-up, and the younger nurse who took my vitals came in with a second razor. So I had two of them working me over, removing the hair covering I’d been cultivating for 45 years. And it took all they had to finish the job. It was clear they were as uncomfortable as I was with their struggle and we were all relieved when they finally finished. I am certain the two of them are still talking about the hairy guy they had a few weeks ago.
As I said, I never really considered myself “hairshirt” hairy. You know the hairshirt guys. They have enough hair just on their shoulder blades or triceps to do away with a dozen of the worst comb-over jobs. Well, I never saw myself that way…but the nurses sheared enough hair off of me that they had to get me out of bed to change my sheets and gown. The pile of hair that had accumulated on the floor was…well, gross and surprisingly prodigious. I felt a little sorry for those nurses.
After suffering that indignity, I settled into my bed to watch the doctors and nurses talk about weddings, diets, and places to get floral arrangements. Then the anesthetist came in to start sedating me. She actually did a double take at me and my charts…she said she wasn’t used to someone so young being prepped for heart surgery and wanted to make sure I was the right person in the right place. I found that disturbing and comforting at the same time. Not long after that, things started to get fuzzy and I only vaguely remember them wheeling me out of my cubical toward surgery.
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