While you were basking in the glory of the Seahawks’ Superbowl win, or wallowing in the misery of the Patriots’ defeat, I quietly snuck off to have surgery. I’ve already discussed the why and the what, so I won’t rehash that here. And I’m doing fine… a little tired, a little sore, but at this point I can say it’s behind me and I just need to rest and to heal, under the eyes of a very watchful Chihuahua, for whom the last few days have been very traumatic – he does not like it when I am gone for extended periods of time (he was so upset I wasn’t there that, the staff here tell me, at one point he threw up all over my apartment).
In my previous post about this surgery, I mentioned it was going to be done at the Urology clinic in the Hirschberg building at Eisenhower Medical Center. That turned out not to be accurate. The surgery was performed at the Same Day Surgery Center in Eisenhower’s Dolores Hope building. And I continue to be impressed by all things Eisenhower. The cancer treatment I received last summer at Eisenhower’s Lucy Curci Cancer Center, and the ongoing monitoring for lung cancer I receive there, is beyond my wildest expectations for medical care; I cannot think of enough superlative words to describe it. My experience at Dolores Hope was no less amazing.
To begin, literally at the beginning, when you come in for your pre-anesthesia testing and labwork, they take care of all the administrative stuff – insurance, biographical data (address, phone #, etc.), advance medical directives and powers of attorney, and so on… basically, they have you come in a week before your surgery and pre-register. I didn’t see the value of this until last Monday, the scheduled date of my surgery. All I had to do was show up. It’s like they’d been waiting for me.
That is very comforting and reassuring. The day of, it’s natural to feel a mixture of apprehension and fear. The last thing you want to be doing is fumbling around your wallet for your insurance card or verifying the phone number of your emergency contact. They even had a bag with my name printed on it in black sharpie for me to put my shoes and clothes and belongings into when they changed me into a hospital gown. I won’t mention the handsome young Latino nurse named Alejandro who helped me change. Please note: bringing something up by saying you’re not going to mention it is a tool in a writer’s toolkit called apophasis; it allows me to convey that Alejandro was hot without demonstrating that even in the face of an imminent and serious surgical procedure I am little more than a dirty old man – I am a dirty old man, but by employing apophasis I can avoid making that point.
I spent more time in the “pre-op” phase than in surgery itself! Most of that time was spent by the nurse, Mary, trying to start an IV. I am what nurses call a “hard stick,” meaning that not only do my veins play hide and seek from them, but I flinch, tense up, and generally behave like a big baby.
At one point, my head turned away and staring out a window whence I could see Mount San Jacinto that presides over the Coachella Valley like a priest saying Mass, I tensed up stiff and winced – Mary said, “I’m not doing anything Matt, my stethoscope hit your hand.”
After she had inserted an IV (to the dulcet tones of my pathetic whimpering), Mary went and got her supervisor and said, “It’s in, but I’m not happy with that flow; I want to take it out and try again, but he freaks out if you so much as touch him.” And I’m thinking ‘get Alejandro, that will calm me down.’ At that point, the anesthesiologist stopped by and said she could work with it as is. Which was good, because there was no way I was letting Mary stick me again!
I can’t tell you about the surgery, not because I don’t want to but because I have no conscious recollection of it, beyond being rolled into a bright white and fabulously clean room, the kindof clean I can only dream about for my apartment!
I had what is called “GreenLight laser surgery,” also known as photoselective vaporization of the prostate. It is used to treat benign prostatic hyperplasia (BPH) by vaporizing excess prostate tissue to relieve urinary blockage, and yes, I’m afraid to tell you that it literally involves a doctor shooting a green laser up your penis.
Unbeknownst to me, Eisenhower was sending texts to the director of Stonewall Gardens, my assisted living residence, every step of the way: …the patient is in pre-op…the patient is in surgery…the patient is in recovery…the patient is mumbling incoherently about one of our nurses…the patient is ready for discharge.
The next thing I know, I’m in a dimly lit room, with a nurse named Anna standing beside my bed saying, “There you are, welcome back, I’ve got some jello, would you like some?” I said yes to the jello, but I was thinking ‘do you have any mint chocolate chip ice cream.’ I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I kept that to myself.
After about an hour, guess who turned up? Alejandro! He said, “Let’s get you ready, Stonewall Gardens is here, is that some new place, I’ve never heard of it.” And I said, “no, it’s in Palm Springs and it’s been around for about 11 years, it’s the first LGBTQ+ assisted living in California, maybe the country – you should come visit us.” I know, I’m incorrigible.
I arrived home to a very relieved Chihuahua and a restless, uncomfortable night with a catheter, which I returned the next day to Eisenhower to have removed. I’m on the mend, and grateful to have this behind me. As experiences go, I wouldn’t want to do it again, but it wasn’t awful, and I think that has a lot to do with Eisenhower, ranked one of the best regional hospitals in the nation and among the top 20 hospitals in California by US News & World Report.
I hope Alejandro visits!
