I’m still recovering from general anesthesia, which turns out to be a longer process than you feel like it should be. I’m mostly fine, so I tried to go back to work today, and it took me about 10 minutes to realize that a) being vertical is no good, because my legs are wobbly in a kind of unpredictable and exciting way where they just GIVE OUT, and b) my short term memory is in the toilet, which means my reading comprehension is also in the toilet, which is no good for a librarian. I can read words, I just can’t connect them to anything for longer than a minute. Writing this is an adventure.
So I’m back home, winding a ball of yarn and watching cozy British murder mysteries that I can’t follow at all because I’ve forgotten who got killed halfway through.
Surgery was fine. They dressed me in a plastic gown that made we sweat like a rotisserie chicken, and I told my doctor I would not apologize, because he was the one who decided that this was what he wanted to do with his life. After he left, my nurses all started talking about how handsome he was, and I said, “yeah, well, he came recommended anyway.”
In the recovery room, after I had come around and had a glass of water, the nurses talked freely with one another, banking on their patients having the memories of gold fish. But SURPRISE, terrible work stories are my special interest, and I just jettisoned all my other memories to make room for it.
What one of them said was this:
“I have to work another late shift. Last week I worked one of these shifts, and I got off in the middle of the night. I was driving home on the Pali, and the roads were empty, and I drove RIGHT ONTO the scene of a motorcycle crash. There was a MAN laid out in the middle of the road, and here I was, the first person to come along. And I was like… should I stop? YES, I stopped, don’t worry, I stopped. His friends were all just standing around, talking and looking at him. I didn’t really want to move him, but he was in the road, and he was moving, so I started assessing him. And this guy was MEAN. I said, “do you have a head injury?” And he was like ‘HOW WOULD I KNOW?’ I said, ‘Were you wearing a helmet?’ His friends looked around and found his helmet, which had a crack down the middle and had flown off him, so yeah, he had a head injury. I rolled him over, and he complained, and I was like, ‘I’m just checking you for road rash, settle down.’ And this guy, he had road rash from his lower back aaaall the way down his butt, his pants were pushed down, and pieces of his underwear were, like, embedded in the road rash. I asked his friends if they had called an ambulance and they said no, they had called a guy with a truck. A GUY WITH A TRUCK. I said I could call 911, and the guy was yelling, ‘nooo, hospitals are so expensive, I’m fine.’ His friends were more worried about how they’d get his bike home, like it was this big inconvenience that he’d crashed his motorcycle and now they didn’t know what to do with it. I’m sure alcohol was involved here, and that’s why they didn’t want to involve the police or paramedics. ‘WE CALLED A GUY WITH A TRUCK.’ Ridiculous.”
I didn’t get to find out whether she called an ambulance anyway or let the dummies roll their buddy into a truck and take off, because the nurses had to wheel someone out of the room.
Everything is ok for now. Going to pop a pain pill and take a nap. Thanks for thinking of me, folks.