Dangerous Abbreviations

I know exactly why this 1977 song came into my head. Words stick when you're waiting, and for me, stuck words can often become musical.

I arrived at the day-surgery waiting room right on time, even though the orderly said that I was early. Early for the surgery, yes: early for when I was told to be there, no.

As soon as the orderly saw my name, he informed me that there would be a delay as there were two emergency cases that required the OR. Without getting into detail, he turned and went through a door, beyond which I could see rows of lockers.

A few minutes later, a nurse came to me and apologized, explaining that because of ER demand, whenever an emergency required immediate surgery, the day-surgery OR was used. There were two cases that had just arrived and would need to use the OR ahead of me. While she didn't know how long my procedure would be delayed, she told me that she didn't think it would be worth my while to go home and wait.

It's hard to get upset about being bumped by someone who required immediate, urgent care, so I told the nurse that I'll send positive vibes to the two cases and continue to wait. I had my smartphone on me—even though the nurse at my pre-op appointment, two days earlier, had suggested that I leave it at home—and there were my virtual friends on social media to keep me company.

I've had major surgery before but today, I was anxious.

A little more than two hours after arriving at the hospital, I was taken to the prep area. I was given a gown and slippers, and was told to place all of my belongings in plastic bags. I then took a fresh blanket, which was also provided, and lay on a gurney, covered.

Within minutes, two nurses came to take my vital stats and to cover me with a warming blanket that would keep me toasty while I waited. They confirmed that yes, I was having an appendectomy, and also made sure that I knew my name and date of birth.

And then I lay there and waited.

I had put my reading glasses and smartphone in the plastic bag, which was now on the floor, next to me. In retrospect, I should have hung onto both until it was time to lock up the bag. I lay in the bed, watching people walk past, watching the clock hands move, hour-by-hour.

My eyes aren't great but I can read somewhat, depending on how far the words are from me and how large the font is. On the wall, next to me, a sign read "Dangerous Abbreviations." Below, in a black background, white type was too small for me to read.

That's how the song got in my head. Only, the chorus became "Dangerous Abbreviations."

"What makes an abbreviation dangerous?" I asked a nurse when she came by to administer antibiotics, a preventative measure in anticipation of the surgery.

She explained that too many abbreviations on orders and reports can lead to confusion. There were guidelines on how to be clear, concise, and to have good penmanship.

Good to know.

The nurse noticed that I had no other reading material. I explained that I had been using my smartphone but that I had tucked it into my bag when I had changed into the hospital gown. She said that I shouldn't worry about putting my phone away until the anesthesiologist visited me. Things would pick up after that visit.

She retrieved my bag and I grabbed my phone and glasses. I had missed some messages from DW so I replied, let her know that I was still waiting but at least was in a warm bed. I snapped a photo of the sign on the wall, knowing that for some reason, I didn't want to forget about the dangers of abbreviations.

The tune still went through my head:

Stranger to stranger
We're both dressed for danger
Something is generating here...

The three Tylenol tablets that had been given to me while my vitals were taken seemed to be calming me, making me drowsy, so once again I packed away my phone and glasses, tied up the bag, and placed it at the foot of the bed. I closed my eyes and tried to get some rest.

It's not like anything I've ever known before
And I don't care...

My surgeon came by to check on me and reminded me that I hadn't yet signed the consent form for the surgery. Because I had put my glasses away, I asked her to read the conditions to me and point to where I needed to sign.

As I signed the paper, the anesthesiologist arrived and questioned me about whether I've ever been under a general anesthetic before. "Yes, a few times." Had I ever had an adverse reaction? "No."

I wasn't given an option of whether I wanted a local anesthetic so that I could watch the procedure. Not that I wanted that option. I wanted to be out cold, not seeing or hearing a thing.

"It won't be long now," my surgeon said, taking the signed form. "The room is ready for us."

The red light is on now
My gravity's gone and how
I can feel something in the air...

My bag of belongings was removed, locked up in a secure spot, possibly in one of the lockers that I had noticed on my way in. I was wheeled down a corridor and into the operating theatre, where I saw two of the largest, circular lamps hanging above my head. They were spotless and had several LED lights around them.

"Do they flash in tune to a beat?" I asked. The reggae-like tune was still in my head.

"I wish," the anesthesiologist said. He and two assistants were the only ones in the room. They helped move me from the gurney to the operating table and both of my arms were stretched out onto boards that extended on each side of the table.

An oxygen mask was brought to my face. "I have to warn you," the anesthesiologist said, "it's going to smell like Canadian Tire."

I inhaled and then laughed. "You're right," I said, which caused the assistant to lift the mask from my face. "It smells like their garden center. I smell fertilizer."

The mask went back over my face. "Just relax," I was told.

My surgeon entered the theatre, ready to go. The anesthesiologist told me that he was going to send the knock-out drug through my veins, and that it might hurt for a second, but that it would only be for a few seconds, after which I'd feel nothing.

It was surprising how much it hurt, as though someone with sharp nails was clawing my hand.

It's not like anything I've ever known before
And I don't care

Dangerous rhythm
Dangerous rhythm
Dangerous rhythm in the air.

I awoke to a nurse asking me to take a deep breath.

I inhaled and tried to open my eyes but there was a heaviness upon me.

"Good. One more."

I took in a huge gulp of air and my eyes sprang open as though I had just remembered something important. I was wide awake, lying on a gurney in the recovery area. But not for long. I was quickly wheeled back to the row of alcoves, where I had lain for hours before my surgery.

"The surgery went well," I was told. I would still be resting for at least another hour before my wife would be called. I just had to relax until my surgeon deemed it was time for me to go.

I was in a different alcove but the sign was on the wall. Dangerous Abbreviations.

"When I feel better," I told the nurse, "I'm going to form a band and call it Dangerous Abbreviations."

"You're funny."

"I have my moments."

Oh, take off your halo
For the all-night inferno
Something is happening in the air...

Eventually, my bag of personal effects was brought to me and I was told that DW had been called. It was time to get dressed.

I moved a bit slowly but had no trouble dressing myself. I turned on my phone and when it had finished booting up, I received a text message from DW. I was about to respond when the curtains around the gurney were drawn and DW was standing there.

"Careful," I said. "There could be some dangerous abbreviations about."

DW already thinks I'm weird, especially after coming off anesthetics, so didn't even flinch. She helped me into a wheelchair and I was officially given the okay to go home. Someone from the hospital would call me, tomorrow, to check on my condition.

The chorus followed me to the exit, where our car was waiting close by.

Dangerous rhythm
Dangerous rhythm
Dangerous rhythm in the air

Dangerous rhythm
Dangerous rhythm
Dangerous rhythm in the air. —Ultravox, "Dangerous Rhythm"