The Night Before Surgery: Chardonnay, Anyone?
The Night before Surgery:
Chardonnay, Anyone?
The doctor and the staff in the emergency ward had just determined that I had a blockage in my intestine and that, to live, I would need surgery as soon as possible. It was about 8:00 p.m. on a Monday, November 22. I was on a cart, being wheeled up to a station on the third floor of Unity Hospital to be prepped for surgery for the next day. While lying on my back, letting a person dressed in white push me through a dizzying maze of dim-lit halls and watching lights from the ceiling race past me, I wondered if those lights symbolized my dire fate: Life was passing me by, growing dimmer and dimmer.
I wondered, too, if had the courage, insight or ability to apply to myself the positive messages I had enthusiastically and so convincingly offered others. I wondered if I could brighten the lights and slow down my race toward death. I wondered if I could use a positive attitude, or even one positive affirmation, such as that I had once given a gang member to cope with the death of “a blood” (a fellow gang member), or a wife to cope with a loving husband who had suddenly become enraged, or a once-aggressive but now helpless and crying man who just found out his wife had left him.
I waited for a positive attitude and for inspirational affirmations and phrases to rise like a Phoenix from some place deep within my soul. I waited . . . I waited . . . I got nothing. “Wait a minute,” I thought. “I’m the guy who promotes a positive attitude with others, who identifies and discusses affirmations to help them get through a crisis. Why can’t I do the same when it comes to me? Why can’t I think of one affirmation for me? Even George Bush—not one of the more intellectual of US presidents – can come up with an affirmation or phrase or two to help him get through one of his infrequent press conferences. “War on terror.” “Mission Accomplished.” “It’s hard work.” “God bless America.”
"Where’s my war on terror? Where’s my mission accomplished, even if nothing was accomplished? Where’s my God bless America? For Christ sake, I’m a counselor!" Slowly, I began to think that not only was I losing my memory, I was losing my mind. I was becoming an idiot!
Still lying on my back, eyeing the ceiling lights passing, almost at the station now, I slowly began to smile at the irony—the humor, really-- of a counselor who couldn’t think of one positive thing to get past his own crisis, his own fear of hospitals, needles, screams from patients across the hall and strangers cutting up my body the next day. “That’s funny,” I thought.
I began to laugh under my breath. Then I laughed out loud and hard—so hard the pains in my stomach began to hurt even more. I laughed so hard tears began to flow. I laughed so hard I had to pull myself up from the stretcher to keep from choking. And just when I was laughing the hardest, we reached the nurses’ station on the third floor of Unity.
“Are you alright, Mr. Walton?” the nurse behind the u-shaped desk asked. I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Are you alright, Mr. Walton?” she asked again. Still smiling, I looked directly at her and said, “No, but I will be. It helps to have a sense of humor.”
As I was being pushed down to room 3018, I continued to smile and think, “That’s it! A sense of humor. That’s it!” Those dim lights suddenly became brighter.
**
After I was placed on my bed in Room 3018, another nurse walked in. She was older (probably in her 50’s) with her hair in a bun. She wore shoes with heavy soles like bowling shoes and a grimace on her face like a drill sergeant during basic training. She was all business.
“Good evening, Mr. Walton. You will be operated on tomorrow. Your surgeon wants your system emptied so she can see what’s in your stomach and colon area. She wants you to drink this cocktail.”
It tasted awful. Still smiling about the irony of being a counselor who was unable to counsel himself, and determined not to allow myself to lapse into self-pity or despair, I did what just about any scared person would do: I made light of a stressful situation. The word “cocktail” gave me an idea. I said, “Nurse, this is not a cocktail. This is chardonnay. It tastes expensive: A little sweet, slightly fruity, but very smooth.”
The nurse said, “Uh huh,” as if slightly bothered by my poor attempt at humor.
“And you and I are not at Unity Hospital. We’re at Sophia’s, a popular nightclub in St. Anthony Main, an upscale neighborhood in downtown Minneapolis, where yuppies buy condos for $800,000 but dress down in jeans and khakis to hide their wealth.”
“As we walk in, a woman is sitting on a stool singing, ‘Summertime/and the living is easy/Fish are jumping/and cotton is high’… A three-piece band accompanies her: a pianist, a bassist and a drummer. The waitress, who recognizes me, brings me my usual, a tall glass of the best chardonnay in the house…”
The nurse interrupted. “Uh, huh. You must be a writer or something … Okay, Mr. Walton, here’s the deal. You’re having an operation tomorrow, and it’s our job to prep you for it. You must not eat anything. You must drink all of the liquid formula on the table; and you must get plenty of rest. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” I said. “But what about our date at Sophia’s?”
“Well, I guess that will have to wait a few days, won’t it?”
“Yes, sir!” I barked, like a new Army recruit. I decided to give her a name, something along the lines of Nurse Nazi.
About 9:30 p.m., Nurse Nazi slipped inside my room. She looked different, like a real person. She had exchanged her nurse’s uniform for tight-fitting blue jeans and a light blue sweater with small red flowers on it. Surprise! Surprise! She had slipped off a cold, professional demeanor and put on a human persona and a broad smile. She looked 20 years younger.
“How’s it going with that fancy chardonnay? Did you order a second round for us?” Oh, my god! A sense of humor!
Then the gentle touch on my shoulder, the soft, low voice to ease the raging nerves in the pit of my stomach, to quell my fears. “It’s going to be alright, Mr. Walton. We have good surgeons here. You’ll get through this just fine. You’re scheduled to come back here after surgery. I’ll check in on you tomorrow. Try to get some rest.”
Okay, maybe the Nurse Nazi thing was a bit hasty.
Chardonnay, Anyone?
The doctor and the staff in the emergency ward had just determined that I had a blockage in my intestine and that, to live, I would need surgery as soon as possible. It was about 8:00 p.m. on a Monday, November 22. I was on a cart, being wheeled up to a station on the third floor of Unity Hospital to be prepped for surgery for the next day. While lying on my back, letting a person dressed in white push me through a dizzying maze of dim-lit halls and watching lights from the ceiling race past me, I wondered if those lights symbolized my dire fate: Life was passing me by, growing dimmer and dimmer.
I wondered, too, if had the courage, insight or ability to apply to myself the positive messages I had enthusiastically and so convincingly offered others. I wondered if I could brighten the lights and slow down my race toward death. I wondered if I could use a positive attitude, or even one positive affirmation, such as that I had once given a gang member to cope with the death of “a blood” (a fellow gang member), or a wife to cope with a loving husband who had suddenly become enraged, or a once-aggressive but now helpless and crying man who just found out his wife had left him.
I waited for a positive attitude and for inspirational affirmations and phrases to rise like a Phoenix from some place deep within my soul. I waited . . . I waited . . . I got nothing. “Wait a minute,” I thought. “I’m the guy who promotes a positive attitude with others, who identifies and discusses affirmations to help them get through a crisis. Why can’t I do the same when it comes to me? Why can’t I think of one affirmation for me? Even George Bush—not one of the more intellectual of US presidents – can come up with an affirmation or phrase or two to help him get through one of his infrequent press conferences. “War on terror.” “Mission Accomplished.” “It’s hard work.” “God bless America.”
"Where’s my war on terror? Where’s my mission accomplished, even if nothing was accomplished? Where’s my God bless America? For Christ sake, I’m a counselor!" Slowly, I began to think that not only was I losing my memory, I was losing my mind. I was becoming an idiot!
Still lying on my back, eyeing the ceiling lights passing, almost at the station now, I slowly began to smile at the irony—the humor, really-- of a counselor who couldn’t think of one positive thing to get past his own crisis, his own fear of hospitals, needles, screams from patients across the hall and strangers cutting up my body the next day. “That’s funny,” I thought.
I began to laugh under my breath. Then I laughed out loud and hard—so hard the pains in my stomach began to hurt even more. I laughed so hard tears began to flow. I laughed so hard I had to pull myself up from the stretcher to keep from choking. And just when I was laughing the hardest, we reached the nurses’ station on the third floor of Unity.
“Are you alright, Mr. Walton?” the nurse behind the u-shaped desk asked. I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Are you alright, Mr. Walton?” she asked again. Still smiling, I looked directly at her and said, “No, but I will be. It helps to have a sense of humor.”
As I was being pushed down to room 3018, I continued to smile and think, “That’s it! A sense of humor. That’s it!” Those dim lights suddenly became brighter.
**
After I was placed on my bed in Room 3018, another nurse walked in. She was older (probably in her 50’s) with her hair in a bun. She wore shoes with heavy soles like bowling shoes and a grimace on her face like a drill sergeant during basic training. She was all business.
“Good evening, Mr. Walton. You will be operated on tomorrow. Your surgeon wants your system emptied so she can see what’s in your stomach and colon area. She wants you to drink this cocktail.”
It tasted awful. Still smiling about the irony of being a counselor who was unable to counsel himself, and determined not to allow myself to lapse into self-pity or despair, I did what just about any scared person would do: I made light of a stressful situation. The word “cocktail” gave me an idea. I said, “Nurse, this is not a cocktail. This is chardonnay. It tastes expensive: A little sweet, slightly fruity, but very smooth.”
The nurse said, “Uh huh,” as if slightly bothered by my poor attempt at humor.
“And you and I are not at Unity Hospital. We’re at Sophia’s, a popular nightclub in St. Anthony Main, an upscale neighborhood in downtown Minneapolis, where yuppies buy condos for $800,000 but dress down in jeans and khakis to hide their wealth.”
“As we walk in, a woman is sitting on a stool singing, ‘Summertime/and the living is easy/Fish are jumping/and cotton is high’… A three-piece band accompanies her: a pianist, a bassist and a drummer. The waitress, who recognizes me, brings me my usual, a tall glass of the best chardonnay in the house…”
The nurse interrupted. “Uh, huh. You must be a writer or something … Okay, Mr. Walton, here’s the deal. You’re having an operation tomorrow, and it’s our job to prep you for it. You must not eat anything. You must drink all of the liquid formula on the table; and you must get plenty of rest. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” I said. “But what about our date at Sophia’s?”
“Well, I guess that will have to wait a few days, won’t it?”
“Yes, sir!” I barked, like a new Army recruit. I decided to give her a name, something along the lines of Nurse Nazi.
About 9:30 p.m., Nurse Nazi slipped inside my room. She looked different, like a real person. She had exchanged her nurse’s uniform for tight-fitting blue jeans and a light blue sweater with small red flowers on it. Surprise! Surprise! She had slipped off a cold, professional demeanor and put on a human persona and a broad smile. She looked 20 years younger.
“How’s it going with that fancy chardonnay? Did you order a second round for us?” Oh, my god! A sense of humor!
Then the gentle touch on my shoulder, the soft, low voice to ease the raging nerves in the pit of my stomach, to quell my fears. “It’s going to be alright, Mr. Walton. We have good surgeons here. You’ll get through this just fine. You’re scheduled to come back here after surgery. I’ll check in on you tomorrow. Try to get some rest.”
Okay, maybe the Nurse Nazi thing was a bit hasty.
posted by Mac Daddy Tribute Blog @ 6:53 AM
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