Surgery

2 pm. Right on schedule. This is a dream.

I used to be scared of surgery - the thought of getting put under was always a moderate phobia for me. I've always had a slight fear of minding altering drugs, and I hate being drunk. Having a foreign substance heavily mess with my state of conciousness was never my cup of tea. Just a thing, I guess.

A few months ago I got my wisdom teeth out and received general anesthetic, so I guess that took the edge off my fear. Because as soon as I saw the porter walk in with the stretcher, I was ready to go.

Still sick, but not sick enough to process the smell of food wafting from the cafeterias. As they wheeled me to my destination. NPO for only little over a day, and boy did this feel rough. The meds still had theirs sickly edge on me, but the nausea drip the nurse gave me was starting to take hold. By the time I got to the operating room waiting area, I was floating.

Hospitals, particularly the U of A, are tremendously busy. Nurses and care staff eke out time for breaks, dealing overflowing beds, patient and staff issues, and the like. Resident Physicians work incredible hours and are called and paged constantly.

But the OR? This is a different beast entirely. It's quiet.

Few questions, no screwing around. Action, action, action. Not a single second spared. The place is booked so tight that there is little room for error or delay. And a sense of calm professionalism permeating the entire operation. If the hospital wards are like a ride-along with a traffic cop, then the operating room is like watching a SWAT team in action.

In the waiting area, my stretcher is parked in a stall that corresponds to the operating theater. A too-sweet-for-words receptionist greets me. She smiles reassuringly, chats me up, and refers to Dr. Briesbois as "a wonderful man."

Moments later, Briesbois walks by with another OR member - I eavesdrop - he's livid that the people responsible for delivering the operating instruments have sent him the wrong set - for the third time that day.

The receptionist says, "your anesthesiologist will be by soon," like he's the bellhop or something.

When he does come, he's animated, jovial. In keeping with the speed of the OR, he fires off a rehearsed, rapid-fire burst of questions and disclaimers.

"Hey, I'm Dr. Hayes. Do you smoke? No? good. Any allergies? None at all? Have you had general anesthetic? Stick out your tongue. Farther. Ahhhhh. Good. We'll be putting in a breathing tube. Down your throat. You'll be out, so you won't remember it. There's a 1 in 2500 chance we may chip or crack a tooth. You'll probably wake up with a catheter. Great. See you in there."

Within moments I'm wheeled into the theater. It's unnerving. I don't recognize this equipment. It's bright bright, clean clean. I'm staring at the ceiling. Strange - there's a sprinkler system, all with angled Plexiglas guards protruding from the ceiling to deflect the spray away from the operating table. What if I spontaneously combust? That's no good to me then.

I glance around. A team of assistants scurries around, preparing. Still no wasted time. A rubber mask is placed on my face.

"Your oxygen is 96%. We like it at 100. Breathe deep. OK. More. You've done this before. Great! 100."

As soon as I'm strapped down to the table, Dr. Briesbois and Hayes appear. Dr Hayes bends over me:

"OK, we're gonna put some anesthetic in your arm. Did you at least get some photos of your spleen? I mean, this is your last chance. You might want to get some photos. Just in case you miss it."

"Naw... thats... cooo..."

Black.