Intensive Care Unit (ICU)

"It's Tuesday morning, your name is… and your birthdate is… You've just had open heart surgery and you have tubes in your mouth to help you breathe which we are now going to remove. After we remove them we're going to ask you your name and birthdate. Can you squeeze my fingers with your right hand to let us know you understand?" I squeezed. "Ok, good. We want you to cough so we can pull the tubes out, ok?" I squeezed again.

"Cough!"

I coughed. I felt the tubes being pulled out of my mouth in one fell swoop.

"Good job."

"Can you tell me who you are starting with your first and last name and your birthdate?"

Since I just had the endotracheal tubes removed, my vocal chords were dry (they'd remain dry and I'd experience episodes of dry cough for a few more weeks after that, normal in procedures such as these). I identified myself, along with my birthdate, as best I could, in a whisper.

"Good."

That's how I woke up from surgery: in ICU (Intensive Care Unit), surrounded by a woman's disembodied voice in a dark room where all I could make out were other people's shadows and movement all around me.

Surgery has a way of distorting, or in this case, accelerating time. More than anything, I was relieved to be awake, and to remember why I was there. And who I was. It took me a while to figure out the time lapse between Monday morning and Tuesday morning. Just a few minutes ago I was busy cleansing my chest and leg areas. All I could think of was "Wow, Tuesday already? I missed all of Monday. They're not done already, are they?" I latched on to that thought, but let it go as being too complex to figure out for now. I was trying to get my bearings.

"I can let you have an ice cube to chew on to relieve your throat," the voice continued. "Would you like me to give you an ice cube?" I nodded affirmative. I felt a gloved hand place a small piece of ice in my mouth. It was cool and refreshing. I didn't think an ice cube could be that pleasing.

"I can also let you have a sip of water. Would you like some water?" Yes, again. I felt a straw at the side of my mouth and my immediate concern was would I have the strength to suck on that straw? I didn't have to worry. Habit and instinct took over. The water was as refreshing as the ice cube.

The bodies continued to busy themselves around me but seemed to have left me alone for a few moments. The surgeon, Dr. D'Orazio, came in the room momentarily.

"Hi, I'm Dr. D'Orazio, I operated on you. How do you feel?" I nodded affirmative and stuck my right hand out, or rather, my fingers. I realized I had IV tubes all over my right wrist and all I could really do was flex my fingers out.

He reached for it and we squeezed, and I thanked him.

"You're welcome," he said.

A little later…

"Do you remember me? I'm Father…" I nodded along and reached my hand out to the kindly priest as well. We squeezed hands and I thanked him also. We said the "Our Father" together.

The chronology of events gets blurred from this point, but it settled into a routine of sleeping, looking at my surroundings, nurses waking me up to give me medication or reading instruments that were attached to me, my wife staying with me for a few hours to visit, having a little something to eat, and so on…

It didn't take me long to realize I had a blood pressure cuff strapped to my right arm and that it automatically took readings every hour on the hour (there was a clock on the wall that I was able to make out and gauge time with). Like clockwork. "Pssshhhh," I'd feel it inflate and tighten, then the pressure would release, and then a little more, and then altogether "foooohhh." And shortly before or after that, on the hour and every hour, one of the nurses would prick one of my fingers to check my insulin level. She always announced what she was about to do. I could feel her feel my fingers and once she decided on one there was a pause, then a faint "snap." Like a rubber band snapping against skin. It was painless. They'd squeeze out a drop of blood onto a small hand-held device and got their readings that way. That's all the sleep I was able to get. An hour's worth at a time, for the next couple of days. If it wasn't the tightness of the cuff, it was the snapping on my digits that woke me up.

More to come...