A little over a month ago I wrote a piece called “Fix Me” with myself juggling several impending surgeries. Since then, being slated for the hernia surgery May 17th, I got a call a couple days ago from the sleep apnea surgeon. Instead of late 2021 they want to put me under the knife May 11th. After a brief wait acknowledging the possibility of doing both surgeries in the same week, it is deduced the hernia repair can wait.
The apnea surgery is less than a month away and I’m turned upside down about it. Will it probably be one of the best things I could do for myself? Will it add a few more years to my life? Definitely. Will it cure my sleep apnea and subsequently my high blood pressure and high hemoglobin? Around 70% is what I’m told and that’s a pretty decent figure.
But dangit, it’s going to hurt. In fact, I’m hoping the surgeon has built it up and so have I so much that there’s no chance it will be as bad as I foresee and am forewarned. But when you’re facing a tonsillectomy, a broken jaw, a reconstructed chin of sorts and a fiddled with and sliced up windpipe, odds are there will be pain and lots of it.
Prior procedures and surgeries, going into that cold, bright O.R. I had a sense of peace. Trusting someone I barely know who’ll force me to sleep, cut into my flesh and sew me up seems rather insane but it’s working for me. This go round feels different, however. “Breathe deeply and count backwards from ten” doesn’t translate into you’re going to be fixed and all will be well. Going under means when I wake up I will be in possibly the most painful, uncomfortable state I have never known and for a good seven days. Hell on earth might be as real as it gets for me. The stuff nightmares are made of.
I needn’t remind myself I am electing to do this. This is me with my hand held high, requesting this happen to himself. I could go on living life as it was and avoid such trauma. But maybe I take that final choke in my sleep and not wake up. I mean seven plus years of choking myself awake over a hundred times a night? I’m willing to bet I only have so much luck of that kind of draw.
Or maybe my heart gives out. Too much extra work pumping that blood faster than need be. Maybe I lose feeling in a limb. Lord knows my toes are somewhat numb all day, every day. There’s not enough O2 circulating in me and the end result is death. I better just bite the bullet, practice some deep breathing exercises and face this thing head on. It’s really my only choice.
Incidentally, isn’t it strange I could have been booked for two relatively elective surgeries in one week, meanwhile the media is warning us of this brutal third covid wave with thousands testing positive every day? If this were true I would think my surgery(ies) would be postponed indefinitely as to prevent the apparent overcrowding. I guess the plandemic is my friend.
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