Home Again, Home Again

Jiggity Jog with a psych consult

Ohhhh….so many things to tell you. I wish I’d had the energy and wherewithal to write as I went along as some of the details of my argument with the surgeon are starting to fade, just like waking from a dream in the morning. Much like waking from a dream actually, well, or a nightmare.

When I first saw the surgeon way back in the early 1900’s (that’s what it seems like, I suppose it was actually only two weeks ago) he had said we might do in-patient rehab, then surgery, then more rehab. Then, as things went along, it shifted to surgery, then in-patient rehab. He would periodically cheerfully suggest that I just go to in patient rehab and get stronger first. Honest to God, I don’t know what he thought was gonna happen there. He would have liked me thinner but let’s face it, that’s not gonna happen overnight, and I’ve done physical therapy several times. It’s great and I’ll do it again but it’s not a magic elixir. And Christ, even the physical therapists openly admit that they can’t fix spinal stenosis. I mean there aren’t tiny little muscles inside your spine. Just aren’t. I wish, but they don’t freaking exist.

So.

Tuesday morning they started prepping me for surgery.

Then I got bumped.

Thursday they started prepping me for surgery, only to stop because my potassium was too low.

They put me on an IV, damn potassium burns. I was a bit teary with disappointment but I wasn’t upset per se. It was my own body’s stupid fault. So Mr. Surgeon comes in and in the course of talking I made the mistake of saying that I’m somewhat better as I can stand up on my own now. He immediately went off on me just going to rehab then. It went on and on. He told me he thought I was just psychologically committed to having surgery at this point. YES, because he told me he could HELP me with surgery. On and on it went. Finally, I shouted, “I AM BETTER IN THAT I CAN STAND UP AND PIVOT TO SHIT IN THAT BOX,” as I pointed at the commode. “THAT’S AS MUCH BETTER I AM.” He kind of muttered, “oh, if that’s what you mean,” and left.

I cried.

Then two guys walk in and announce that they are there from Psychiatry.

You have GOT to be frigging kidding me, I thought. Upon seeing my shocked face one of them said, “Oh, nobody mentioned this?” “Uh, no,” I said.

So I had to sit there and answer question after question.

Did I ever want to hurt myself?

Had anyone in my family ever wanted to hurt myself?

Did I drink?

How much did I drink?

Why do I drink?

Do I do drugs?

Do I use sleep aids?

What education do I have?

What medications am I on?

On and on and on and on.

Endless, intrusive, unnecessary questions.

Periodically I would pause, wipe my eyes and say, “I am just astounded. Absolutely astounded.”

He did remind me a bit of Oliver Platt, the actor who plays a psychiatrist in Chicago Med. When I’m not feeling great I have a soft spot for black and white issue procedurals so after my hysterectomy a few years back I binge watched Chicago Med and I do have a soft spot for Oliver Platt (I’m always unnerved when he plays a shady character).

I played nice and politely answered Faux Oliver’s questions but I resented it deeply.

Later I told some of the nurses and CNA’s about this and oh man, they were nice. And pissed off. You just keep advocating for yourself they told me. The psychiatrist also sent somebody from Nursing Services or something like that to see me. I was confused a bit as the nurses had been great but she asked aa few questions and I realized she was there to talk about Mr. Surgeon. She was great, although she couldn’t openly agree with my assessment of him (heh) she made it clear what her feelings were and said that once I was discharged she would bring up some of my points to neurosurgery. I don’t see neurosurgery getting their delicate little feelings hurt by my comments, but it was nice to be listened to.

Then I cried some more.

By the time they came to get me for my surgery I had the worst headache imaginable. When they put the plastic mask over my nose and mouth and said to breathe deeply, I breathed deeper than I thought was humanly possible.

Onward.

Love,
Cynthia