I know, it was the meds talking. Not nearly as humorous now that they've long worn off.
So, how did the surgery go? Well, let me illustrate for you:
I arrived at the hospital to learn that I needed to retake the urine test because, and I quote, "something was wrong." (That something later proved to be nothing.) I was then told that my chest x-ray (in China you need a chest x-ray before eye surgery because . . . because . . . yep, I'm stumped, too) showed a serious problem. "You have a mass," the doctor informed me. "You will need to get a CT scan right after surgery."
Cancer. That's immediately where my brain leapt. I pondered whether or not to call off the surgery — after all, why operate on my eyes unnecessarily if I only had months to live? A mass, in my chest . . . lung cancer, I decided. From all that second-hand smoke in elevators and restaurants . . . curse you, smokers! It's not fair! I've never even so much as sampled a single cigarette and now here I am approaching my deathbed . . . common sense came back after a short jog around my brain. Best to hold off panicking until after the CT scan, I reasoned. And you might as well get those eyes fixed so that at least you can read in your remaining months, if you do happen to be dying. It was reasonable, so I took a deep breath and went in the room to be prepped for surgery.
Dr. Ai (her name, most appropriately, is pronounced "Dr. Eye") wanted my eyes thoroughly flushed. The method for accomplishing this was not, as I had expected, one of those sinks with the emergency eye flushing faucet like factories and laboratories have. Instead, the friendly, smiling nurse asked me to lay on my back, relax, and remain perfectly still while she stuck that needle in my tear duct?!?! I really wanted to be a good patient, the sort that nurses beam approvingly at, but in all honesty, who exactly in this world can actually relax while a needle goes into their tear duct? Any takers? I didn't think so. My tear ducts, apparently, bear much in common with Goldilocks: one needle was too big, another too small, and, in the end, no needle could be located that was just right. Maybe I have oddly shaped tear ducts, or perhaps the hospital just forgot to order my size. Regardless, I was relieved beyond belief when Dr. Ai showed up and said, "Let's just pour water into her eyes with this tube." Ah, yes, that I could stay calm and cool for. No problem (or mei wenti as we say in Chinese).
After the eye flushing, they sent me upstairs to my private room (my surgery was inpatient) to wait. "Think of some stories to tell me while we're doing the surgery," Dr. Ai told me as we parted ways temporarily. In a little less than an hour, the nurses and stretcher arrived for me and I was carted off downstairs to my fate. Personally, I would have preferred to walk, but I guess the nurses wanted some exercise. They wheeled me into the operating room, which was decidedly cold and reminded me, unpleasantly, of Dr. Mallard's morgue in NCIS. Since I knew I had lung cancer and was likely morgue-bound in the next few months anyways, I tried not to ponder that idea too much.
|On the bright side, he shares all sorts of fascinating trivia with his patients . . .|
Now, I should pause here to explain why I was still awake and alert at this point. The reasoning behind this was that, in order for the best possible chance of success in an operation that I only had about a 75% chance of success in, the doctor wanted me awake and alert enough to be able to tell her what I was seeing. This was to help her get the adjustments more accurate. Unfortunately for me, this also meant that I would have to be awake while both eyes were being cut . . . and I would need to be able to feel much of the pain. It was no easy choice, but I did opt to try for local anesthetic just to give my eyes a better chance at being fixed. I was more terrified of a future of only being able to use one eye than I was the pain of the operation . . . or so I thought, pre-surgery.
As I lay on the VERY narrow table, reflecting on the fact that it clearly was not built with a western body in mind, the nurses and Dr. Ai bustled about preparing for the Big Event. They set up instruments, sterilized my entire face, gently scolded me for touching my newly-sterilized face, and draped several coverings over my head so that eventually only the left eye was exposed. They offered to tie down my arms and legs, but I felt that I would be more comfortable untied. I tried not to think about my lungs, pitifully heaving against that encroaching tumor. I focused on the surgery instead . . . and that decided that it might be better to think about butterflies and mint milkshakes.
As I tried to think happy thoughts, I felt my arms begin to shake. Clearly, they were not listening to my brain telling them, in soothing terms, to relax and ponder Irish sunsets. My lungs felt heavy in my chest . . . probably that tumor weighing them down. I decided to think about how selfish and evil smokers are for polluting the air of innocent bystanders . . . and that's when that needle came into view. Yes, the one aimed DIRECTLY FOR MY EYEBALL!! "Don't look," Dr. Ai commanded. A reasonable request, which my eye had no intention whatsoever of following. An enemy is approaching! my dutiful left eye informed me loudly. Captain, enemy vessel in sight. Initiating closing procedure . . . Dr. Ai put the needle aside momentarily and captured my wayward eyelids in a most uncomfortable clamp that clearly was designed during the Spanish Inquisition. Captain, Captain, enemy vessel in sight again! Approaching rapidly — abort, abort! Closing procedure denied — Captain, whatever are we to do? My poor left eye screamed in terror as the needle plunged into the eyeball. My brain winced in sympathy, but then reminded me that chemo would definitely hurt a lot worse. With that comforting thought, I forced my forsaken left eye to abandon its post and focus on the wall rather than that other rapidly approaching sharp object . . .
Dr. Ai paused and asked if I felt that we should give up on local and switch to general anesthetic. She reminded me that there was an anesthesiologist standing by for that very purpose, if I should feel that the pain/fear/outright trauma was too much for me. "No, I want to try for local," I resolved. I could tell from her voice that my doctor was pleased. I tried to feel happy about that, but there just wasn't room in my brain for another emotion. Dr. Ai made pleasant small talk as the sharp object approached again . . . she reminded me not to look . . . my left eye feebly tried to warn us all about the encroaching danger before submitting to being redirected towards the wall again . . . and then the excruciating pain and pressure started and I knew quite certainly that my eyeball was being forcibly ejected from my scull. Traitor! my left eye whimpered as the pain overpowered it. I involuntarily cried out and shuddered.
"I don't think you can do this, Stephanie. I think we need to switch to general." Dr. Ai told me.
"Yes," came my strangled response as I fought the wave of nausea that accompanied the pain.
I drifted in and out of awareness as they prepped me for general; perhaps it was a result of pain coupled with far too much fear. I apologized over and over again for not being strong enough to handle the pain. Dr. Ai kept patiently reassuring me that it was fine, most people can't stay awake. I drifted in and out again. At one point, I thought that maybe I was awakening and the surgery was over. But then I heard the anesthesiologist informing me that he was about to give me the good stuff, and I knew that we had scarcely begun. Another flight of panic welled up within me as they inserted the oxygen tubes in my nose. I'm going to die on this operating table . . . right now . . . oh, Lord Jesus, into your hands I commit my spirit . . . I don't recall anything further after that frenzied prayer.
The next thing I knew, I was awakening, blind, in what I decided was probably the recovery room. The sound of a man somewhere within the room shrieking in agony confirmed my hypothesis. I was in quite a bit of pain, too, but I decided to just whimper quietly until the nurses gave him his morphine first. After all, even on my deathbed I'm polite. In a short while, the screaming man's voice petered off into something dazed and rather loopy, and I knew that he was well-dosed. A nurse came to me then and asked how I was feeling. "Hurts," I gasped out. And then, moments later, I felt the very nice sensation of whatever she put in my arm, and the pain was just a memory. I thought about asking to go home now that I was all better, but then I remembered that I was inpatient. After an hour or so, they finally carted me back to my private room.
And that's where I started thinking about Dr. Strangelove, as my eyes dripped something that I instinctively knew was bloody, and as I drooled slightly on the pillow. Hee hee, the Communists are getting my precious bodily fluids! my brain gleefully chortled. My eyes, having lost their sense of humor, ignored my brain, but the rest of my body enjoyed the joke. I continued to privately ponder my macabre little jests as I was slowly weaned off the heavy pain drugs and onto the lighter sort. The next day, they carted me down and performed the CT scan. I tried to think positive thoughts. At least I've done a few good things with my time here on earth, I reassured myself. No matter what happens, I know that I tried in good conscience to do the right thing, to brighten my corner, and to serve God and others. I guess that's a pretty good legacy, even if I didn't get as much time as I had hoped.
In the early evening of the day after surgery, Dr. Ai uncovered my eyes and did an adjustment to the suture in the right one (because I had to be put to sleep, she had opted to put in an adjustable suture so that she could try to be more exact in getting the angle of my eye right). The time came to test my eyes:
"Stephanie, how is this Q-tip?" Dr. Ai asked me. "Can you see it clearly? Only one?"
My heart sunk deep into bleak despair. For, after all that suffering and all that fear and those three months of nearly constant migraines and worsening vision . . . the surgery had failed. My eyes were still seeing two Q-tips.
"Oh no," I told her. "I see TWO of them, STILL!!"
Dr. Ai cast a startled glance at her hand.
"Oh no," she laughed, "There are two!"
And then she shared the CT results with me: No mass at all, just swelling because I apparently had pneumonia a few times in the past year or so without knowing it. No cancer. But I probably should do better about going to the doctor the next time that I'm sick.
|My eyes, about two weeks after surgery. Red, sore, and itchy, but only seeing ONE of everything! (Unless there are supposed to be two.) Surgery was a success!|