Journal of a Living Lady #249
Nancy White Kelly
Blepharoptosis. That
is the technical name for it. Droopy eyelids is the layman’s term.
Having had numerous major surgeries
in my lifetime, topped with two occurrences of serious cancer, you would think
that elective surgery would be unthinkable. However, I enjoy seeing my entire
surroundings and squinty-eyed reading is a nuisance. My eyes had become slits
and it took a lot of brow effort for folks to notice that I had pupils.
Two optometrists recommended I see
a plastic surgeon. I did. He confirmed the surgery was medically necessary.
June was the time to take care of
the matter. I had all the routine pre-surgery x-rays and lab tests. The dreaded
day arrived last week.
I sat in something like a reclining
dental chair while waiting to have the tired tissue removed from above my eyes.
It was after mid-afternoon. I had nothing to eat or drink since midnight. As my
parched tongue probed my mouth for a hint of moisture, my attention to thirst was
diverted. The anesthesiologist was yelling.
“Stop, Joe. Stop now!” The doctor
was obviously trying to get the attention of a man who was in the cubby
immediately adjacent to me. The nurses
joined in: “Stop pulling on your face, Joe. You are in the recovery room.”
I couldn’t see the threesome
because of a cubical divider, but I could plainly hear it all. Obviously the patient, not fully awake from
the anesthesia, was fighting some imaginary phantom.
Like the calm between noisy outbursts
of a storm, Joe stopped agitating on the gurney for a few minutes. Then he
started up again. The anesthesiologist, obviously a marine drill sergeant
before going to med school, stepped in another time. The doctor yelled Joe’s
name repeatedly and told him in no uncertain terms to stop pulling at his face.
This was the same, kind, calm anesthesiologist who had reassured me minutes
earlier me that all would go well with me.
I know what a panic attack is.
I’ve had a couple in my lifetime that rallied every ounce of adrenaline in my system.
Only minutes away from the bright lights of the surgical suite myself, my fight
and flight juices began pumping profusely.
This was not something I had to do. Was the procedure really so
bad that the anesthesiologist would have reason to be yelling at me next? It
was decision time. Fish or cut out like Bambi chased by a burning forest. I
could smell the fire.
Without a word, a nurse injected
something into my IV. It was an instant tranquilizer. Minutes later I was
rolled into the sterile, cold surgery room which had a recognizable
formaldehyde smell. The child’s prayer ran through my foggy mind, “If I die
before I wake…”
I returned to consciousness later in
the same area where Joe had been. It was a peaceful, uneventful awakening. Two
hours later Buddy drove me home. The ordeal was far from over as the recovery
process was just beginning.
In my next column I will tell you
what plastic surgery is like and how the victim of physical abuse must feel.
