Battle

Hazy gray clouds filled the air in front of me. As I fought my way to consciousness, they faded into a blurry view of the hospital’s recovery room. Waking up in such a manner wasn’t anything new to me; I’ve had a lot of surgery.

I was shivering but didn’t feel cold. I didn’t feel anything, I realized. Blissful, blessed pain medication flowed through plastic tubing into my bloodstream, but I’d still expected to feel some discomfort. Coming out of surgery is never painless, especially when it’s major surgery involving the removal of two and a half pounds of breast tissue. I pulled the thin, cottom blanket up closer to my chin.

I certainly didn’t feel like my life was in imminent danger.

*****

Six months earlier

I’d regained consciousness after jaw surgery to the sound of inhuman wailing and a recovery room nurse demanding loudly and urgently that someone find the dilaudid and find it right fucking now! A male voice replied to her, sounding equally frantic, panicked, even; the manufacturer of dilaudid was in Puerto Rico. The production plant was destroyed by Hurricane Maria. There was none of the strong narcotic pain medication- anywhere.

Guess the wailing person was screwed, I thought, as I faded back into sweet nothingness.

*****

Although I felt no pain as I nestled into the meager blanket, I couldn't stop shaking. My teeth clacked together so hard I thought they'd shatter.

"I ca-aan't s-st-stop shiver-vering," I told the nurse.

"When you came out of surgery," she replied, "you were shaking the whole bed."

Was she saying my body's current level of frenzied convulsions was an improvement over what it had been?

"Holy shit! Does that mean I had a seizure? "

There was no response.

The patient next to me was wheeled out of the recovery room. He was awake and feeling well.

My eyes fell shut.

Time passed.

*****

"Neuro-malignant hypothermia?" someone whispered in the dimly lit room.

That sounds bad, I thought dispassionately. But it also sounded kind of interesting, the way animal documentaries or tours through a museum are interesting. I rolled away from the two whispering nurses and went back to sleep.

The irritating bleep-bleep-bleep of the monitors woke me up as soon as I'd drifted off again. The noise was neon blue, and I didn't like it.

"Joyce, this isn't normal," the nurse by my bed called out. "I think we should call the anesthesiologist."

I twistted in the bed, sluggishly fighting the blankets to see the vital signs in bright colors on the computer screen:

Blood pressure, 177/120. That obviously was a bad reading. My blood pressure was never that high.

Heart rate: 163. Bullshit. My pulse didn't race like that anymore, not since my heart surgery three years ago.

Oxygen saturation: 93%. Eh, could be better, could be much, much worse.

A new patient, IV pole in tow, was wheeled into the space next to mine.

*****

The anesthesiologist appeared from behind the neutral-toned curtain at the end of my bed. "What's her temperature?" he asked.

"38 degrees," the yet-unnamed nurse answered promptly.

I tried to remember the conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit from science classes in college, but my brain was too foggy.

"Give her some valium," ordered the doctor.

"Did you say . . . valium," she asked hesitantly.

"Yes, and more Demerol."

Valium? I thought. I already felt like there were fingers in my head stirring around my brain matter. Did he actually think my symptoms were caused by anxiety? I'd mentioned to him before surgery that I'd had a panic attack last time I woke up from an operation. Did he seriously think this was a panic attack? I was barely even awake.

I knew from bitter experience; telling a doctor about any kind of mental health-related response could be a huge mistake. I was furious that I'd let myself do something so stupid.

*****

As I lay in the recovery room after my jaw surgery six months ago, a kind-hearted nurse put her hand in mine to comfort me. The background soundtrack of screaming intensified, and I wanted to yell at that person to shut the fuck up. Too bad you couldn't get a private recovery room, I thought.

Only seconds after I'd taken the nurse's hand, a male voice said, "you have to let go!" I didn't know what they wanted me to let go of. I felt thick, strong hands struggling to pry my fingers away from the nurse's.

Someone appeared with a syringe full of dilaudid.

*****

I woke up to nervous voices discussing my vital signs. My bottom blood pressure reading had dropped into the thirties.

"Get the anesthesiologist back up here," Joyce instructed.

"I have to pee," I told her.

A bat flew from right to left across the ceiling in the recovery room, but it wasn't using its wings to fly. It just sort of glided along at a steady pace. How was it flying without flapping its wings? How the hell had a bat gotten into the hospital in the first place? Why didn't anyone notice?

I shook uncontrollably, cold but not cold.

*****

As I slowly became coherent after my jaw surgery (kind of hard to stay asleep with the constant howling - for fuck's sake somebody needed to put that poor bastard out of their misery) - I noticed how many people were standing by my bed. A woman stood by my IV administering fentanyl. Two men stood at the end of my bed watching me. Another person took my temperature. The left side of my face felt like I was delivering a flaming, six-armed baby covered with razor-sharp spikes through my mouth. That, at least, would explain all the attention I was getting.

I realized the screaming person in the recovery room was me.

*****

The anesthesiologist again materialized at the end of my bed. In my confused state, I explained in jumbled English that I wasn't panicking. I told him the only reason I panicked after surgery last time was because I was in intense pain. I obviously wasn't panicking, I told him, because I hadn't broken anyone's fingers yet.

After a noticeable pause, he said Valium was also used as a muscle relaxer.

He then popped up next to the nurses by the monitors. Oh my god, he can teleport, I thought with awe. I wanted to compliment him on his extraordinary ability, but the words leaving my brain got lost on the way to my mouth.

I looked beyond the small group huddled by my bed. It seemed I was the only patient left in the recovery room.

"What time is it?"

"4:30," Joyce answered distractedly.

"How long was my surgery?"

"It lasted about an hour and a half."

Ok, I knew my surgery started at 11:15. That meant it was over by around 12:45. I'd been in recovery almost four hours? My other recovery room stays lasted between forty-five minutes and an hour and a half.

Something was wrong.

"What's going on?" I asked. The nurses and doctor ignored me while they discussed me.

"What's happening?" I demanded, louder this time.

The anesthesiologist looked up and stared at me silently.

"What is going on?" I yelled.

The anesthesiologist walked back around to the other side of my bed. Why didn't he teleport? It pissed me off that he walked.

"We think it's serotonin syndrome."

"What does that mean?" I asked through my still-clacking teeth.

"The levels of serotonin in your brain are too high," he answered tonelessly.

"And what does that mean?" I wished I could project the image of an angry swearing face emoji, so he'd know my exact opinion of him.

"It's why your eyes are dilated, and it's causing your fever and shaking."

My eyes didn't feel dilated.

"I have a fever?" I asked skeptically. That's weird, I mused. I never run a fever. I once had pneumonia in both lungs and didn't run a fever. My body temperature sits at a cool 97.4 degrees.

"How high is my fever? In Fahrenheit?"

"About 100.5 degrees," he responded.

Huh, I thought. No shit.

With this revelation, I fell back to sleep.

*****

I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, and I'm not one to exaggerate the severity of it. I'd rather suffer in silence; it's a self-consciousness issue. Regardless, I'm not embarassed to admit I screamed after jaw surgery. A lot. Delivering a spiked, flaming baby would've hurt much less.

The surgery was a success, however, and I'm glad I went through with it. The discs in both of my temporomandibular joints had slid completely away from where they should've been. I remember the surgeon pointing to a small white smudge on the radiology film and saying, see this? It should be over there. And this one? It should be here.

Not only were they in the wrong places, they were damaged beyond repair. They needed to be removed.

While in the recovery room, I was given enough drugs to supply a small cartel. After fentanyl, dilaudid, hydrocodone, morphine and tramadol, I should've been extraordinarily happy, and I was. The pain gradually subsided. Temporarily, anyway. I went home the next day.

Now, I can eat corn-on-the-cob and dried banana chips again. My jaw has not popped out of place. I even lost a few pounds during surgery. I promptly gained them back when I could start eating normally again.

I'm still curious where the dilaudid came from.

*****

"Send her up to intensive care," the anesthesiologist ordered. I wasn't really sure why a mild fever and some shakiness warranted intensive care. On the other hand, I'd never been admitted to the intensive care unit before, and hey, I'm always down for new experiences.

Serotonin syndrome, I found out later, can cause coma, seizures and death. It may have also been responsible for the appearance of a bat flying across the recovery room.

The intensive care unit was one hell of a nice place. The room was quiet, dimly lit, and warm. The nurses were attentive and very nice. My glass was always filled with fresh ice water, and orange Jell-O was delivered on demand. (Apparently, I demanded so much I exhausted their supply, and they had to start raiding the Jell-O stashes of other departments.) It was as relaxing as a mini-vacation in a spa, and what that says about me I'd rather not know.

I had no lasting physical effects from the serotonin sydrome. I have seen the bat from the recovery room a few more times, though. I've named her Battle.

#Surgery #health #hospital #medical #personal #inspirational #SerotoninSyndrome