A Pair of Socks

From the moment I wake up (4:30) to the moment I go to sleep (11:00), I am like a car speeding towards a destination that keeps resetting on a daily basis.  I am like a hamster running on a wheel, exerting great energy but not actually gaining any traction as I have to get up and do it all over again the next day.  I can be a bit frantic at times, multi-tasking at an insane level, and somehow never dropping any of the balls that I juggle.  I don’t know how I have been able to do it for as long as I have, and still retain some bit of sanity.

Nothing seems to slow me down, even as hurdles and obstacles are thrown in my direction. Somehow it only makes me more determined and more productive.   I have faced adversity.    But nothing prepared me for the day my life literally stood still, when I slammed so hard into a wall that forced everything to stop.  I had no choice.  For the first time in my life, I was no longer in control of what was happening or what was about to happen.

I was lieing on a gurney in a sterile, bright cubicle with various strangers running in and out of the room, jabbing needles into my veins, hooking me up to wires, asking me on a scale of one to ten, what was my level of pain.  I was unable to sit, stand, or lie down when I was rushed into the ER.  I was doubled over in pain I had never felt so intensely before and until the source of the pain was discovered, no pain killer of any kind would be administered.  Wheeled from room to room, from X-Rays to ultrasounds to EKGs to blood tests, six hours passed until the miracle known as morphine was administered.  Within less than five seconds, all was good again.  All of a sudden it was as if I was weightless and floating in air.  Then the question came again, on a scale of one to ten, what was my level of pain?  Now that I was doped up, I felt fantastic, and then as quickly deflated.  I had to have surgery, or risk life-threatening consequences.

At this moment, I was grateful for my smart phone, as I was able to text my friends who were expecting me at the golf course in an hour (unaware I had been in the hospital since 2am), and I was grateful that I had a living will and an advanced health directive and proxy in place should I become unable to make my own decisions.  My life flashed quickly in front of my eyes.  I didn’t have much time to stall or be afraid.  This was happening.  What little clothing I still had on, had to be removed, except for a pair of hospital socks.  All personal objects placed in a bag. A plastic cap placed around my hair.  People tapping at both of my arms trying to find usable veins.  There was no time to be self-conscious, there was no place for dignity.  The nurses came in, the anesthesiologist (a Boston Red Sox fan of all things tending to me, a NYY fan), everyone explaining to me what was about to happen.   The surgeon who I didn’t know from Adam was about to put his foreign hands literally inside my body.  There was going to be no foreplay, no small talk beforehand, an audience, and me with just my un-stylish socks.

I was told that the surgery took less than an hour and I now have four scars on my abdomen that both frightened me and make me feel powerful at the same time.   I have allowed people who I know well to see my scars that I wear proudly now.  It was about three weeks before I could return to normal activity (thank God for Percoset) and for the first time in my adult life, I was completely dependent on others.

I will probably never wear a bikini again, but I am so fortunate for the medical facility and staff that took care of me, the brilliant surgeon who took my life in his hands, his very adept skills, and for the dissolving sutures and liquid bandages that have left barely visible scars on my abdomen now.   My body didn't adjust properly, and a month later I had to undergo two additional sock-wearing procedures, but I am going to be ok. I still have these pairs of socks, which are now symbolic of how much I mean to my loved ones, and who I could count on, no matter what.  I am grateful and lucky.