Wednesday, July 09, 2008
That's where I sit right now. A dungeon-like space on the lower level of the Mercy Medical Plaza. Crowded when we arrived at 9:30am, it's now virtually empty. Just me and a couple other souls either waiting for their loved ones or to be called back for procedures of their own. This enables me to claim a series of three seats, attached like a couch, for my light load: purse, laptop case, and Grande Starbucks Doubleshot with Energy.
They took him back for surgery at 12:30pm, after needle poking, arm squishing and question asking. An exact repeat of the first surgery a month ago. I sat with him for a few hours and then walked a block to Starbucks. Not because I wanted to experience the heat and smoke of the outdoors (today the air is particularly terrible - the hundreds of fires are nothing but helped by temperatures near 110), but because sitting for 2-3 hours in the waiting room listening to others whine about their various ailments is even less desirable. In fact, these last 30 minutes that I've chosen to endure are plenty. There is someone sleeping behind me, snoring like they're at Motel 6. The elderly couple to my right, however, are cute and just chatting pleasantly. There are doors opening and closing, names being called out, and the ever-present "hospital smell." That familiar waft of latex, iodine and alcohol. It's strangely comforting - perhaps reminiscent of the time spent visiting my mom on her nursing shifts in the maternity ward. Not that I'd spend any more time here than necessary.
I didn't mind the waiting room during the previous surgery. Last time, the procedure was scheduled at Mercy General Hospital next door. There, the waiting room had high ceilings and a plethora of windows. It was much less claustraphobic, even though I had to sit in Michael's wheelchair for the duration. It's impressive how comfortable those are and I had no problem reading and playing sudoku while slowling rolling back and forth in a vacant patch of the waiting room.
As I continue to write, there's a steady rotation of people entering and exiting. The two women across from me, who were talking about the various affects on the soul when one is cremated versus buried, have been replaced by a weathered woman in her 50s wearing clothes made for 30-somethings. She's reading a paperback, her silver-painted toenails glinting from the flourescent lights and occasionally distracting my attention. As she drinks her pink Vitamin Water, I wonder who she's waiting for and why they're here. Meanwhile, the snoring continues and I tilt my head over my right shoulder to peek. A man, with his little girl on his lap, is dead to the world... That is until his wife rescues all of us and wakes him to leave.
Dr. James, Michael's orthopedist, just came out and said the surgery went well. A new, longer titanium plate is now attached to his clavicle via nine titanium screws. Dr. James said the screws should not have come out in the first place; the only possibility is that Michael's bones were a little softer due to being inactive for so long. The new plate is the longest one available for that purpose and Michael will have to lay low for at least five weeks. This will make him very unhappy but it will be better in the long run. He can either push it now and ruin himself for any further fun activity, or he can take it easy and have fun next season. I think he's smart enough to choose the latter.
I'll hopefully have some photos soon from the procedure. I'll make them small so that those who want to view them can and those with a weak stomach can ignore them. But for now, I'm going to pack up and prepare to see him in post-op.
They took him back for surgery at 12:30pm, after needle poking, arm squishing and question asking. An exact repeat of the first surgery a month ago. I sat with him for a few hours and then walked a block to Starbucks. Not because I wanted to experience the heat and smoke of the outdoors (today the air is particularly terrible - the hundreds of fires are nothing but helped by temperatures near 110), but because sitting for 2-3 hours in the waiting room listening to others whine about their various ailments is even less desirable. In fact, these last 30 minutes that I've chosen to endure are plenty. There is someone sleeping behind me, snoring like they're at Motel 6. The elderly couple to my right, however, are cute and just chatting pleasantly. There are doors opening and closing, names being called out, and the ever-present "hospital smell." That familiar waft of latex, iodine and alcohol. It's strangely comforting - perhaps reminiscent of the time spent visiting my mom on her nursing shifts in the maternity ward. Not that I'd spend any more time here than necessary.
I didn't mind the waiting room during the previous surgery. Last time, the procedure was scheduled at Mercy General Hospital next door. There, the waiting room had high ceilings and a plethora of windows. It was much less claustraphobic, even though I had to sit in Michael's wheelchair for the duration. It's impressive how comfortable those are and I had no problem reading and playing sudoku while slowling rolling back and forth in a vacant patch of the waiting room.
As I continue to write, there's a steady rotation of people entering and exiting. The two women across from me, who were talking about the various affects on the soul when one is cremated versus buried, have been replaced by a weathered woman in her 50s wearing clothes made for 30-somethings. She's reading a paperback, her silver-painted toenails glinting from the flourescent lights and occasionally distracting my attention. As she drinks her pink Vitamin Water, I wonder who she's waiting for and why they're here. Meanwhile, the snoring continues and I tilt my head over my right shoulder to peek. A man, with his little girl on his lap, is dead to the world... That is until his wife rescues all of us and wakes him to leave.
Dr. James, Michael's orthopedist, just came out and said the surgery went well. A new, longer titanium plate is now attached to his clavicle via nine titanium screws. Dr. James said the screws should not have come out in the first place; the only possibility is that Michael's bones were a little softer due to being inactive for so long. The new plate is the longest one available for that purpose and Michael will have to lay low for at least five weeks. This will make him very unhappy but it will be better in the long run. He can either push it now and ruin himself for any further fun activity, or he can take it easy and have fun next season. I think he's smart enough to choose the latter.
I'll hopefully have some photos soon from the procedure. I'll make them small so that those who want to view them can and those with a weak stomach can ignore them. But for now, I'm going to pack up and prepare to see him in post-op.
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