Yesterday we got up at 5 am and headed downtown during the first snowstorm of the winter. Not bad going for us but bad on the highways apparently. At least this is what everyone we meet at the hospital will tell us as they mostly have to take long drives to get downtown. This day was my pre-op appointment. It is during this event that they get the blood and info they need to proceed with getting you open and under repair. In return, you get info that you don’t particularly want to hear. Some useful (mostly), some just disconcerting.
The good thing about having a 6:45 am appointment is that you are going to definitely be one of the first to be dealt with and that was the case today. The parking lot was empty, covered and warm. You would expect these minimal assets from a parking lot that you would later find out was going to cost you $28 for the three hours that you use it. Hospitals sure know what side their bread’s buttered on when it come to parking. You have little choice or inclination to go hunting around for better deals when the one thought that you have is survival (if you’re a patient) or worry (if you’re a visitor).
We were a bit early due to the lack of traffic on the road so we sat and had coffee and absorbed the recently-mopped, linoleum ambience of the hospital. This was the first time I had been in the hospital since getting “The News” and whereas I hadn’t thought much about it before today, the reality of the impending stay here was starting to become all too itchy.
There was virtually no one in the waiting area and the receptionist saw me right away and took down some info, found out what kind of room I wanted, (I opted for a private room. My union insurance covers most of it and I will pay the difference between private and semi-private myself, the better to be left alone to lick my wounds) and then she soon sent me down the hall to holding pen 3. She didn’t call it holding pen 3, of course, but it was that. One of the countless 6 x 6 foot cubicles that seem to form the bedrock of the modern hospital. This one, at Toronto General Hospital, was a bit seedier than Princess Margaret (the hospital, not the royalty) but essentially the same.
Then began a dizzying array of visitations by various hospital notables…
First up was Leah, an RN who’s function it was to tell me more or less exactly what was going to happen on D-day and answer any procedural questions I might have. She basically echoed the pamphlets and booklets that I’d already been given but spent more time on the sexual after-affects. This was a little odd, sitting there with Brooke, and having this kind of flashy woman talk about what I would have to do to rehabilitate my sex life. Apparently, it is this side effect (the potential for impotence or raising the flag at all) that most men find the worst thing to deal with. My mind immediately went to the catheter that would soon be going in where things should really only come out. That, I felt would be my waterloo. Incontinence or “dribbling” is also a concern. For this, I am told, there are men’s diapers. That should be good for the old sex-life, I think. “Excuse me, my dear, can you help me with these pins?” Still, she was entertaining and quite bright. My mild quips (meant to make myself feel like I still had some vestige of control) were met with raised eyebrows and a wry smile. From Leah, I mean. Brooke has heard anything I could possibly come up with, I would think.
I should say, at this point, that all the personnel I ran into on this day were professional, personable and sympathetic (to varying degrees). If I seem to poke fun at any of them, it’s only because of the extreme process I was going through at the time. If a clown tries to make you laugh while you’re drowning, he’s going to have limited success at best. Even at this point you can’t really accept that this is happening to you. You who counted his good health, athletic abilities and joie de vivre as a given. There is a parable about living life…. carpe diem… don’t let the moss grow on…. well, you get the picture. Get out and do stuff I guess is the gist.
Next on the agenda was Olive, the swab girl. I doubt that that was her official title but it amounted to a good deal of what she did. She took my blood pressure (145/90, not great. Too much idleness lately…) Then she took out a series of long cotton swabs. “We have to protect the other patients against communicable disease,” she said. “Super bugs are rampant. We have to check you for bacteria levels.” It occurs to me that in the sci-fi movie of all this, this would be the moment that they miss the critical NEW superbug in my ear that later on kills thousands. Swabs go everywhere in seconds. Nose, armpits, crotch and bum all fall prey to the swabbing. I hope she doesn’t find anything. How embarrassing would that be? Mind you, I’d probably get my private room for free. Olive bids me good day and wheels her machine and cart out. I go and search for Brooke. I made her leave for the swabbing. I have to be left with SOME dignity. She’s never seen me in a position like that. Well, other than that time in the hotel in Florida.
Brooke returns moments before Phil the Pharmacist. Phil wants to know exactly how much crap they can shoot into me to keep me under, kill the bugs and relieve the pain. Phil seems happy. In fact he is constantly smiling, part of his eastern heritage, I assume. That or perhaps he breaks the drug-dealers golden rule and indulges in the product. Anyhow, every negative response I give to questions gets a vigorous check mark on the paper. Phil seems satisfied with my profile. Phil moves on.
Now its time for the blood-letting. A nurse, who I shall call Violet, because I didn’t catch her actual name and she kind of looks like a Violet. In a short, pleasantly plump, Greek sort of way. Violet enters with a basket and another machine. She is going to take my blood and give me an ECG examine. She dumps a pile of vials on the desk and starts going through them. “Can’t find mine?” I enquire innocently. “They’re all yours, dear” she says and wrapping a rubber tube round my arm, runs me through with the needle. The blood starts running and she deftly catches it up in the dozen or so vials. Apparently everyone is going to get one. Including the mayor. Then I lie down and she covers me with taped-on electrode receptacles. Now I have a relatively hairy chest and sides and as she puts the 10 tape tabs on me, pressing them down firmly, with Greek, people-of-the-sea hand strength, I know what the outcome will be. She does the ECG, my heart is fine apparently. I think about having a memorial put up to the one part of my body not giving me trouble. Knock on wood. Violet leaves and I spend the next five minutes extricating the tape from the hair on my chest. Brooke looks on and, I suspect, is vastly amused at this.
Last but not least is RN Judith. This is a very nice nurse who is the head nurse and will be putting together a profile of me so that other nurses on my ward will know best how to deal with me. They will know better than to mention the war, for instance. She asks many questions and is interested in my career as an actor. I tell her that I mostly do voice work and she asks what she might have seen. Turns out she has children and is familiar with some of the shows I’ve worked on. This, I feel, can only stand me in good stead with other nurses who probably have children too. She concludes her time by passing on a little map of where I should go on D-day and what Brooke, who will be with me, should do for the three or four hours between when we part and when she will see me again. Apparently there is a time, as she waits in the waiting area, that Dr. Fleshner will come out, wipe the sweat from his brow and peel off his bloody latex gloves. Removing his mask, he will smile and say “It was a complete success, ma’am. Not only did we get all the cancer, we anticipate no side-effects and we extended his penis by 4”!”
A teary-eyed Brooke will then enter my room and as I come-to from the gas, we will acknowledge each other’s presence with a shy but marked intimacy. Then I will probably throw-up.
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