Stand Up, Lying Down

...Continued from "Magic Carpet Ride"

I tried to move but couldn't. I felt too weak.

My left foot felt warm and heavy. My toes tingled but I couldn't move them. I felt as though I was weighted down. I didn't even want to move my arms. I hadn't the energy to open my eyes.

But I must have made some sort of motion, for a soft voice was soon near me. It was reassuring. "It's okay, Ross. Lie still. You're doing well." I felt a hand on my covered chest, just above my heart, then it moved to the left side of my face.

"I'm not going anywhere," I wanted to say, but my lips only blew air out of my mouth. And then I was asleep again.

I felt my covers lift gently from around my hip. I had no idea about how much time had elapsed. Gentle, warm hands lifted my gown, exposing my hip. Fingers tracing a numb area on my body. I could feel something was attached to my leg, just above the knee. I was trying to make sense of it all, but I was too groggy to make any thoughts stick.

I drifted off again.

I raised my right hand to my face, could feel the tubes going into my nostrils. I inhaled more deeply and could feel the fresh oxygen. It helped me open my eyes. I could see that I was in a large, open space. I could sense beds on either side of me but had no desire to turn my head to confirm. A central desk area and more beds on the other end, though I couldn't focus enough to see if they were occupied.

I remembered the first surgery, on my right foot, more than 25 years ago. I remember first stirring, detecting something on my face. A mask. I pulled it off and a nurse quickly returned it over my nose and mouth. I pulled it off a second time and she once again put it back in place.

A third time, I pulled it off, and the nurse did nothing. After what seemed like seconds, after taking a few breaths, I reached for the mask and secured it over my face.

I had no mask, this time, but I had learned that lesson. I wasn't about to pull the oxygen tubes from under my nose.

When the nurse returned, I said something to her and she laughed, but I have no idea what I said. She placed her hand on my cheek and brought her face close to mine. She was young, pretty, with her light-brown hair in a tight pony tail. Large round glasses made her eyes as big. "I'm Stephanie," she said. "I'm going to take good care of you."

She lifted my sheets again and I could feel her look under my gown to check the bandages on my leg and hip.

I said something and she laughed. I either said, "Don't look at my junk," or "Don't cool my junk."

"You're funny," she said, covering me up again.

"I'm here all week."

"Actually," she said, "you're here for about another hour. Just close your eyes and rest." She gave my shoulder a tender squeeze and moved away. As she moved to another patient, I could see that she was petite, under five feet in height.

Years ago, in Montalcino, Italy, DW spied a shopkeeper of an oenoteca, a wine shop in an old hill town. He was sweeping his front steps as we pulled our car into a vacant spot across the street. I noted his short stature—no more than five feet—and DW said, "He's adorable: let's scoop him up and bring him home."

DW could say it of the shopkeeper but I knew I couldn't say the same of Stephanie.

I dozed off and on over the next hour. Stephanie checked on me regularly and I would try to talk. Words left me but I didn't hear them or try to control them. My nurse would grin or chuckle, add an, "Oh, Ross, you're a funny one." Whenever she talked directly to me, she would always bring her face close to mine, would always lay a hand on my chest or on my face.

As I woke more, she took my blood pressure and told me she was going to move me to another ward for final recovery. She said that she would stay with me until I was settled in my new place. Two hours in her ward, she explained, two hours in another ward.

"They're going to call your wife and let her know she can take you home at 4:30. In the other ward, she's welcome to visit you beforehand."

"She works not far," I said, "it won't take her long to get here."

An orderly came to move my gurney. Stephanie walked alongside, holding my hand, giving me reassurance that I was fine. I couldn't feel anything below my left knee, but that was the point.

The second recovery room seemed smaller. There was a center corridor with beds on either sides, each bed partitioned with a curtain. I was moved to the end and placed in a spot with a wall to my right, a curtain to the left. Across from me, a woman in her late 60s lay awake, watching me as I was wheeled into position.

Stephanie spoke with the nurse in this ward. She was about my age, with dark, wavy hair. I drifted in and out, but then I felt a warm hand on my face, and Stephanie was leaning in to come face to face. "I'm leaving you in good hands, Ross. Rest well and have a speedy recovery."

I took her hands in mine. "You're awesome," I told her.

The new nurse introduced herself but my head was getting foggy, my eyes found it hard to stay open. The only thing I heard her say was, "You're here for two hours, which will take you to 4:30. The only thing you need to worry about is resting. Just close your eyes and relax, and I'll check on you from time to time. In a few minutes, I'm going to call your wife."

The curtain remained open, and I could see across to the woman across from me. She seemed wide awake and was watching me, but I just closed my eyes. Rest was all I needed.

The nurse stirred me every half hour to take my vitals and check the bandages on my hip. When she drew the gown aside, I could see the patient across from me watching. "Make sure you don't share my junk," I said. "Trust me: nobody wants to see it."

The two hours flew.

The nurse returned near 4:30 and woke me: "I have to see if you can support yourself on crutches before we release you." This was the moment that made me the most concerned. In previous surgeries, on my right foot, I was taken straight from recovery to a hospital bed. I stayed in that bed for a week, not leaving it for at least three days. And today, I was going straight from recovery to crutches.

The nurse brought me a new set, which belonged to the hospital. DW had my set. "I'm sorry they're a bit short," she said, "it's the only pair we have."

I looked at the crutches and immediately adjusted them. "I have the exact same set," I told her, pointing out the pinholes down the bottom. "See the markers that show the height?" I clicked them into place to match my own.

The nurse pulled the bedsheets off me and the gown rode up to my waist, fully exposing me to her, an assistant, and the woman across from me. "Please don't show my junk," I said. "Who do you think I am, Tony Clement?" I had said it loud enough for everyone in earshot, and it was followed by laughs from around the room, including patients I couldn't see. Someone next to me applauded.

"Will you hold my gown in place?" I asked the nurse. "I don't want anyone peeking in my back door." More laughter.

I took five steps down the corridor and five steps back to my bed. "Perfect," the nurse said. "I'll get your clothes and find an orderly to take you to your wife. She's parked out front."

Getting dressed was a bigger challenge than navigating the room on crutches. I couldn't bend at the waist, and getting my plastered foot through my underwear and pants was a workout. I had left my winter jacket in the car with DW but had a thick hoodie from Nova Scotia that I pulled over my head. By the time the wheelchair arrived for me, I had worked up a sweat and was panting.

From getting dressed.

I was secured in the chair, thanked the nurse for her excellent care, and was whisked out of the room and down the corridor.

The orderly moved at a brisk pace, as though there was some urgency and I had to evacuate the building. The pace he moved made me think of a movie, where an elderly woman was being whisked through a hospital hallway, doctors swarming her in shock.

The woman kept repeating the same excited phrase: "DOCTOR GAVE ME A PILL AND I GREW A NEW KIDNEY!!"



I started screaming it out as we passed folks in the hall.

The orderly looked at me as though I had lost my mind.

So did DW, when I saw her and shouted it out to her.

I guess I do some of my best comedy under sedation.