The wait and the deed
The taxi to Orly airport and the checking at the airline counter went smoothly. So did the long flight back in relative confort, well attended to by the stewarts, and we landed in Newark ahead of scheduled time. Entering the USA gave us a glimpse of future travels. We did not have to present passport, face recognition from a screen and a double check by a human let us into the country. Once our checked in luggage rolled out of the carousel, we found the waiting spot for the parking valet to drive us to our car. After going through the formalities to release the car, we drove home and arrived late afternoon, tired but happy to finally rest. The whole trip had been pleasant, without hiccups or gremlins spoiling it.
in ten days I was going to be operated on. I kept busy processing the pile of books I had brought back with me. Some had already been entered in an auction, the rest was sorted and researched. The manuscripts occupied most of my time, the Grecourt hand written 500 page book from 1742, filled with galant poetry, and the 1584 De Sault accounting ledger, about 150 pages filled with old style French lines of names and number. I was able to read some of it and will need a paléographe to decipher it more accurately. The provenance of this ledger was important, mid way through the book were the accounts of the Comtesse de Sault.
I had ordered several books about her and read to know more about this extraordinary woman who dominated some of the toughest men at the time and lived untouched until she died in 1611, quite young still at 58 years old, having secured a name and a place for her children.
So the wait for the day of surgery filled with occupations that helped me remain calm before the deed. I had developed some sort of silly bravado going to the day the doctors would take charge of my body. All to avoid the anxiety of knowing people would cut my body apart, harvest veins from my leg and remodel my heart so it ticks well again, hopefully for many years after.
Finally the day of the surgery arrived, I was to get there early after fasting all night. I was processed at the registering desk and the time seemed interminable, I wanted to get on with it without further delay, now I was anxious to have it done quickly. At last my name was called and I was attended to prepare me for the procedure. Strip naked, covered by the hospital gown, the doctors introced themselves and spoke about what was going to happen to me in the nest 5 hours, I signed consent papers and the nurses got busy shaving me, pricking me for blood, sticking wires and tubes in my arm and neck. None of it was uncomfortable or painful. A pinch here and there, that’s about all. After an hour or so, I was wheeled to the operation room. I was greeted by a half dozen of people in masks and gloves, the room was bright and filled with medical equipment, some I recognized and other foreign to me. I’m not sure there was much said. I believe I asked for music and I believe they said of course we could have it, I believe they asked me what kind of music. I said play some blues. I believe I heard some music but it was not blues. And that was the last of my consciousness that day.
I woke up bound the bed. Both my wrists were attached to the sides, obviously so I would not pull the breathing tube coming out of my mouth or the ones draining my thorax or the catheter directing my urine to the bag it was connected to. It was a difficult awakening. My bravado had dissipated and was replaced with a sense of helplessness, tethered to tubes and wires designed to help me stay alive but more and more uncomfortable as I started to become conscious of my situation. When fully awake I try to gesture about removing the breathing tube. I was understood but totally ignored as, they said I still needed it to breathe. That did not make it less annoying and the night came. I must have slept some, seemingly waking up what it felt every hours, with the bid red digital click crawling through the hours. This was the ICU, I was kept there four nights. The three meals offered did not open my appetite, only to munch on yogurt fruits and ginger ale or apple juice. All along asking for them to remove the breathing tube. It was pulled out finally and my breathing was difficult and painful, I was told, on account of the two drainage tubes in my thorax pressing on the side of the lungs. I was fitted with an oxygen tube. That and the medications gave my mouth an unpleasant dryness with a metallic taste that lasted several days. At last after three days in the ICU, the chest tubes were removed and my breathing, albeit laborious, improved.
All the doctors, nurses and orderlies were personable and pleasant. I had them sign a white tee shirt adorn with a big heart and as each group entered the room, I asked them to put their names in red marker. That warmed them up to me most saying no one had asked them to do that before. All were eager to sign on, from my surgeon to the orderlies. Laboriously my breathing started to improve. The machine recording my vitals rang from time to time with shallow breathing. I fought it trying to take large breath in order to get more oxygen in my lungs. Eventually the dinging stopped and I arrived to acceptable oxygen rates. It became a job. On the fifth day I was discharged from intensive care and moved to the convalesce floor, almost tubeless. The room was smaller and I had a roommate, an eighty year old man who talked in his sleep. A Vietnamese vet assigned to support unit. I never saw combat he said almost apologetic. I’m not sure why he was there but overhearing his interviews with the doctors I believe it was also an affair of the heart. At my age, he would tell the doctors, what good is it, perhaps it’s my time. Then in another instance he was hesitant when told that without the operation he would die. The next day we got to be a bit chattier and we spoke. I related my situation and encouraged him to take the operation if he was hesitant. He liked that, he seemed to be encouraged by my words telling me he needed that.