My surgery took place on Wednesday, May 8.  Apparently it was more
complicated than they expected, and it took three hours.

I didn't get much sleep the night before -- still busy with all the last
minute things I had to do.  I received the scheduling call from, of all
people, Mary R., a nurse who I know well through online conferencing.
Apparently forgetting all of our vehement online disagreements, she was
plainly thrilled to have me as a guest of her unit, and said she would
make sure I had the best nurses attending to me.

So, Wednesday morning, flat on my back on a gurney, I was wheeled into the
operating room.  Even in my addled state, I could see the architectural
features: this was plainly a special space, a focal point to which much
else was ancillary.  It had a very high ceiling, and the walls were done
all the way up in tan ceramic tile of a kind I had not seen elsewhere in
the building.  The elegance and intense focus of activity, and the hushed
crowd of doctors and retainers in immaculate uniforms, made me think of a
corporate board room, or perhaps the inner sanctum of the grand lodge of
some great secret society.

I awoke in a noisy and busy room.  I was uncomfortable but not in much
pain.  I was asked many times the scale-of-one-to-ten pain question, and
answered it honestly; I think the highest number I reported was three.
Eventually it settled down to "1 in general, but 2 when I swallow."  The
nurse said she would put that down as a 2.

Presently I was taken to a regular hospital room to spend the night, still
flat on my back.  The hospital bed was contorted in such a way as to make
it impossible to get comfortable.  I couldn't move my left arm much
because of the IV and associated equipment.  An annoying mechanical device
slowly squeezed each of my lower legs in turn, all night, and helped keep
me awake, but presumably kept the circulation going.  Nurses kept showing
up at regular intervals to take my blood pressure, even though the reading
hardly varied from 120/70.

The other half of the room, behind a curtain, was occupied by a busy
executive type with blood clots in his legs.  He wasn't happy to have his
schedule interrupted, and was on the phone almost constantly.

To my left was the window, through which I could see an unfamiliar
Modernist cityscape of the middle of the huge university hospital complex.
Though many buildings were visible, I couldn't see the ground, and had no
idea how high up I was.  (Later I was surprised to learn that I was only
on the 5th floor.)

The night passed with cruel slowness.  No clock was visible, but I
eventually figured out to pick up the phone and call the automated time
lady.  I thought it must be almost dawn, but it was 1:14 am.  I managed to
sleep for a while, but it was only 1:22.  And so on, and on.  This
couldn't be good: two consecutive nights with very little sleep.

Around 7:30 am, the surgeon and her two assistants showed up.  They seemed
almost disappointed that I wasn't in more pain.

I remembered, but carefully didn't mention, the saying attributed to
professionals in the tattooing and body piercing industry: "The bigger the
guy, the bigger the cry."  On the other hand, middle aged men who get this
kind of surgery for sleep apnea are always going to be big guys.

My tonsils had turned out to be much bigger than she expected: size 3+
rather than size 2, where 1 is normal.  My nasal passages were
unexpectedly complex.  Apparently this showed that my deviated septum had
not been due to some early trauma -- I was just made that way.

The warned me not to blow my nose for two weeks (a hard rule to live
with).  I was not to do any heavy lifting -- ten pound limit.  They
repeatedly warned me not to do any roofing, as if they suspected I had
predilections to climb up on top of the house and start nailing shingles
down.  "No roofing!" were the surgeon's last words to me.  I am not making
this up.

After that, I was visited by Annie Rose, the chazan (cantor) of our
temple.  Visiting the sick is one of her roles.  I told her about my
friend with metachromatic leukodystrophy, and some other stories.  She was
very surprised to see me in good spirits and talking -- she said she had
never seen someone in such good shape the day after an adult
tonsillectomy.

"I'm not the most body aware person," I explained yet again, and told the
story of going to Glen Echo Park on sore feet and dancing all evening
(mentioned earlier on BP).

Eventually I was brought home, and other complications arose.  Janice (my
wife) and Sarah (age 3.5) both came down with some kind of flu-like
illness.  By Friday I was in better shape than they were, and I was
answering the phone and so on.

It is obvious that I am sleeping better than before.  The experience of
waking up alert is very novel for me.  Not only do I have more energy, but
I have more stick-to-it-iveness and I'm much more productive.  I have
added many hundreds of 19th century political figures to the Political
Graveyard database since Wednesday.

So here I am, home, on a diet of yogurt, ice cream, pureed potato soup,
and the like, with a mild sore throat.  No deadlines, no driving, no
meetings, no co-workers, no calls to return.  Just pleasant music, great
fun with my database, and the bosom of my family.  The only concern is
that the doctors might decide I don't really need three weeks off work.

                                Larry

---
Lawrence Kestenbaum, [log in to unmask]
Washtenaw County Commissioner, 4th District
The Political Graveyard, http://politicalgraveyard.com
Ebay Page, http://members.ebay.com/aboutme/potifos/
Mailing address: P.O. Box 2563, Ann Arbor MI 48106

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