Trusting Hands

There are not many places you can go where you can put your complete trust in total strangers to the point of being completely vulnerable. One such place is a place no one wants to visit. Of course, I’m talking about a hospital. I recently had to go in for an out patient procedure. It’s not important what it was. Let’s just say, it was a man issue in a sensitive area. It starts when you arrive at 6am. It’s always good to be the first on the schedule. The doctor should be fresh after a good night’s sleep, assuming he got to bed early. He also won’t be tired and distracted from having done this all day, and be in a hurry to get home. You walk into a grand atrium reception room. It’s bright and open, and has clusters of comfortable chairs where it would be nice to sit and have coffee. But, I was under instructions of no food or drink after midnight. You fill out a basic information sheet for the receptionist who sits under a digital board that lists five digit numbers next to the word “surgery”. My wife Maureen and I sit and wait to be called. After a couple of minutes in those comfortable chairs, and the nurse came out, “Mr. Archer?”

We were then led into cubical number six. It’s a curtained off area with a gurney, a chair, and some medical equipment. On the gurney, are two plastic bags, a hospital gown sealed in a packet, and a pair of slipper socks. The nurse is very pleasant when she tells you to take all your clothes off, and put them in the plastic bags. Put the gown on, and it opens in the back. There is no other place in the world where you would agree to this, but here you start to feel any control, or modesty slip away. By the way, with all the miracles of modern medicine, they still haven’t perfected that gown. No matter how you try to tie it, it does open in the back. So you get up on the gurney right away. An aide comes in to take your blood pressure. A nurse comes in to hook up your IV, and put on two paper bracelets with your name and date of birth on them. You are asked by just about everyone your name and birthdate to make sure they have the right person. Operating on the wrong person is tough to explain. The nurse also hooked up that paper gown to hose that shoots warm air on you. She says the operating room is cold. So far, this is the best part of the morning.

Then the people who are actually going to be in the operating room come in. The nurse anesthetist comes in. Again, very pleasant. She introduced herself, and I kidded her by saying, “I’ve been warned”. She is followed by her supervisor, the anesthesiologist. A doctor who makes his living by knocking people out. He’s a nice man with a beard who explains how the medication he will pump into my hand will put me to sleep, and how I will come out of it. It’s coming up on 7:30am when the surgery is suppose to start. The anesthetist says the doctor is running late. Uh, oh. Does that mean he overslept? Or his car broke down? It’s a little disconcerting, since he is the only person I know, and the only person who knows me.

Fortunately, a couple minutes later, the doctor arrives. He says he has already done two procedures! What? It’s only 7:30am, and I’m now number three on his list. What time did he get up? Was he up all night, and would he really like to take a nap? Then he comes over to me, and says, “We’re doing the right side, right?” I say yes. He them lifts my paper gown, and writes “yes” on my right hip. I’m not sure now if I should be reassured that he’s being thorough, or concerned he needs a visual reminder to “cut here”. But, I trust him, and what am I going to do, run out of the hospital in my gown that opens in the back.

Now it’s time to kiss Maureen goodbye. Knowing we’ll see each other on the other side, of the surgery, not that other “other side”. I’m then wheeled down the white corridor, with the overhead fluorescent lights flashing by. We pass a sign that says “Quiet Zone”. You really don’t want to hear loud talk coming out of an operating room. Once we turn into the operating room, another nurse asks if I’m allergic to any medication, or nurses? I said no, I’m married to a nurse. I then tell them Maureen has worked in a big pediatric practice for over thirty years. The nurse anesthetist then says, “I’m thirty-nine. I went there. I was probably a patient of hers.” Now, I’m picturing her as a little girl as she puts an oxygen mask over my face, and says “Breathe deeply.” My arms are now spread out, and I feel a pain and sting in my left hand as the anesthesiologist starts the flow of medicine to send me away. He is asking me what I did for a living. I tell him. He says, “Oh, that’s interesting, and you should go to sleep now.”

About two hours later, I wake up to yet another nurse asking me how I’m feeling. Maureen is let in to see me. She says the doctor called her, and said everything went well. I’m not feeling any pain. Once the nurse is sure I’m okay to leave, I get my clothes out of those two plastic bags, and get dressed. I’m put in a wheelchair and pushed out the front door to our car, and we drive home. It’s 10:30am. For two hours, I will never remember, professional, dedicated, and caring people took care of a complete stranger who went to them for help. They treated me as they have many in the past and more in the future. Maybe we can all learn a lesson from trusting hands.