No birthday…no surgery!
By Rob Hoffman on April 23, 2018 at 5:58 AM
Several weeks ago I wrote a blog detailing the fact that I was “suffering” from a hernia. I had my surgery to repair the very same said hernia just last week. (Apparently they don’t heal themselves.) As a result of this experience, I’ve come to a very important conclusion regarding the healthcare industry, which of course includes the pharmaceutical end of the medical insurance/care labyrinth that we all must deal with at one time or another in our lives. This is what I’ve learned. Heaven help the poor bastard who doesn’t know his birthday. I thought remembering my wife’s, parent’s, friend’s, brother’s, and children’s birthday could be a stressful challenge. I’m here to tell you now, as I recover with an ice-pack on my groin, that if you don’t know your birthday, you can’t get an aspirin, much less hope to be operated on once you entered the menagerie that is modern medical care.
I only wish I had kept count of how many times on April 19, 2018 that I was asked my date of birth. You are literally dog fecal matter in a doctor’s office, pharmacy, or hospital if you don’t know your birthday. I suppose, other than your name, it’s probably the second least forgettable thing about one’s self, certainly more memorable than let’s say your phone number, (Who even cares about that anymore?) your address, or even your mother’s maiden name, all information that used to hold the key to many doors. No, it’s your birthday, the only one you have, and you had better best remember it, or you’d be lucky to get those “grippy” slip on sock/slippers that they provide you with when you undress for surgery.
I don’t know. Is this what I want on my feet if I die on the operating table? (You Tube)
Surgery, both great and small begins about a week before the actual procedure takes place. The surgeon’s office calls and gives you a list of dos (do’s) and don’ts, (mostly “don’ts”) to follow in order to begin your preparation. Of course, everything that they tell you is for your own good, but that doesn’t stop you from considering that for decades, people underwent surgery, and nobody told you to do anything other than show up on time. However, a lot more people suffered from complications from surgery historically, so it’s better to just shut-up and do as your told, which I did. Since I prescribe to the school of healthcare that states, “I’d rather take vitamins and supplements than let’s say exercise vigorously and eat well,” I take a lot of vitamins and supplements. Unfortunately, when you are preparing for surgery, those all have to go. So, for the week before my procedure, I could no longer take the following:
- Melatonin — A sleep aid that your body produces naturally to help you fall back to sleep, but that you sometimes lose as you get older
- St. John’s Wort — An herbal supplement that’s supposed to enhance your mood. That’s why I’m so f%&#ing cheerful all the time. (My wife calls the combination of melatonin and St. John’s Wort before we go to sleep, “Happy/Sleepy.”)
- Acidophilus — A dietary supplement that’s supposed to aid your digestive functions, and therefore reduce digestive problems…not that I have any, but you never know.
- Vitamin D — It’s supposed to be good for a lot of things, but it’s especially good for people who live in the Northeast who only receive about six to eight days of sunshine per year.
- Men’s +50 Gummy Multi-vitamin — I take this because I’m a man, and I’m over 50, and it’s supposed to be good for the prostate since it has lycopene, a substance found in tomatoes. Since my father died from prostate cancer, I’ve been taking lycopene for about 15 years. Is it working? Well, I’m writing this aren’t I?
- Advil or any product that has ibuprofen or aspirin. — These are blood thinners, and they don’t want you to bleed excessively on the operating table. I was forced to take Tylenol, (Like an animal) and apparently they’ve figured out how to keep people from tampering with their product, so all is well.
I’ve never been a big fan of Tylenol. Firstly, I never really think it works all that well, and secondly, when I was a freshman in college, the whole tampering and poisoning problem that Tylenol experienced exploded on to the scene. My mother called me in a panic begging me to throw out my supply of Tylenol, which I did, I think. I might have just been telling her that to make her feel better. Either way, I lived to tell about it, and surgeons apparently haven’t lost faith in the product. (New York TImes)
The other instructions that I received pertained to the directions that I was supposed to follow the night before the operation. I was instructed to purchase a special soap that I was told to scrub onto the trunk of my body, and where the surgery was going to be performed. It was called Chlorhexidine and I was directed explicitly not to get the product on my genitalia. I don’t know about you, but that type of information is always going to stop me in my tracks. I was also told that I couldn’t eat after midnight the night before, (What am I, a “Mogwai?”) not to use deodorant (Sorry honey, heh, heh, heh.) and that I could brush my teeth the next morning.
I was however thrown for a loop two days before the procedure when my surgeon called me. Since doctors rarely call you unless something is wrong, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear from her. Fortunately, she was simply calling to inform me that I had the option of having the surgery done “robotically.” Apparently this would mean very little to me, and I most likely would not have known the difference had she not told me. She explained how this procedure would work, but like the president, when somebody starts using big, science sounding words, I just assume it’s “fake news,” and stop paying attention. She did however bring me back into the conversation when she said that it would be less likely that I would need to be catheterized if I had the surgery done robotically. As I’ve said to many individuals in my life, you had me at “no catheter.” (Spoiler alert, she used a catheter anyway…do’h!) The other silver lining involved if I had the operation done robotically is that I was given the first operating slot for the day. As a caffeine addict, who wasn’t going to be allowed to have any coffee before the procedure, the earlier the operation would be carried out, the better it was going to be for my psyche.
This is why I wanted the robotics room for my surgery. Look at how unsanitary and risky a normal procedure is. These guys aren’t even taking it seriously. (Getty Images)
I awoke for my busy day at 4:30 in the “AM,” brought my long-suffering wife who would be accompanying me on this messy journey, her coffee, although sadly I could not partake, took my shower with my anti-bacterial soap, and we were out the door at 5:20 in the morning. I was immediately amazed at how many cars were on the road that early as we headed southbound on the Northway, and since we knew they couldn’t be factory or state workers, we decided that they had to be people who were on their way to New York City, or Gypsies. (I thought I heard the intoxicating sound of tambourines.) We arrived approximately 10 minutes late at St. Peter’s hospital in Albany, (Or as we call 10 minutes late in the Hoffman house, “on time.”) and I was greeted by the “Patient Advocate.” The man was so nice and personable, I actually wished he was doing the surgery.
From there I was brought to the “pre-op” area where I was stripped of my civilian clothes. I put on my gown and grippy socks, which were bright yellow, and I might add, hideous. From that point on, four different “nurses” (I will call them nurses for lack of a proper title since I’m not really sure if all of them were nurses, orderlies, or administrators, but they all seemed nice, professional, and very attentive.) bombarded me with a myriad of questions that seemed to center on my previous health history, (Didn’t they have this already?) why I was there, and whether or not I knew my birthday, and if I could identify it if I heard it? We also discussed my son’s recent wedding, the fact that I was a teacher, and how nice that was, how difficult that job must be, how social studies was not their best subject, but now they love history, and the state of healthcare and health insurance in the nation. It was like The McLoughlin Group, but nobody was interrupting each other or yelling.
I know this is going to sound weird, and nobody is going to believe me, but none of the nurses looked like this. Could every movie I’ve ever seen about nurses have been wrong? Nah! (Getty Images)
After just a few minutes, they moved me, and the bed I was laying on down to the operating floor. It was a row of beds filled with hernia and cardiac patients. (An interesting combo to say the least) Luckily I was in the former. I heard a doctor going over whatever cardiac procedure an older gentleman was about to endure, and it sounded pretty involved and scary. I was praying that he wasn’t describing the hernia procedure, which thankfully for me, he wasn’t. I was then visited by the surgical nurse, who asked me some questions, including my birthday, and then a few minutes later I was visited by the anesthesiologist, who asked me a ton of health related questions, and of course, my birthday. Call me crazy, but every anesthesiologist I’ve ever met is a 35 to 45-year-old man with a shaved head, who’s full of energy and humor, and just loves his job. It’s like they’re all “Patch Adams” or something. Then my surgeon came in, and the only thing I remember her saying is that this was the last thing that I was going to remember. I think they then came in to get me, put a mask on me I think, and next thing I remember, I’m in a Mexican motel in Puerto Villarta, and everybody is calling me Pablo, and kissing my ring. (That may not have happened, but I think there’s an idea for a movie there.)
At this point, when you wake from surgery, the only thing that matters is whether you can pee on your own. The catheter as well as the breathing tube that they stuck in my throat during the operation were long gone. I could breathe well enough, the questions was, could I pee? If you can’t pee, you can’t leave. Well, they said to me that it might take a while since I had been catheterized and that likely my bladder was empty. They obviously didn’t know who they were dealing with. I said, “Can I get up and try to go to the bathroom?” They said sure, and while it wasn’t pleasant, just as I’ve done my entire life thanks to lots of coffee and beer, I was able to pee like a champ. Now, I remembered that I hadn’t eaten in at least 12 hours, and since nobody is going to mistake me for Gandhi, it was time to rectify this problem. I said to my wife, “How about the diner?” I then got dressed, they wheeled me out to the curb, and the next thing I knew I was at the Halfmoon Diner treating myself to some pancakes and bacon because damn-it, I deserved it!
“We can’t possibly perform the procedure doctor, he hasn’t told us his birthday in almost 10 minutes.” (Getty Images)
We then headed off to the pharmacy where I picked up my pain-killers. I was given Percocet and very strong Motrin. I wasn’t in a lot of pain, but I took the Percocet anyway just in case. Before I could receive my prescription from the pharmacist however, I first had to….you guessed it, tell them my birthday. Fortunately, I was off the “Percs” after just one day, and now I’m using Motrin, but even that I believe I will be able to stop taking very soon. There are a couple of side effects you don’t count on besides the pain that you’re expecting. Your throat is very sore and dry from being intubated, you have pretty significant cramps from having them blow up your abdomen with air so they can operate, you are somewhat constipated, and if you’re a hairy Eastern European like myself, they shave your belly so they can operate. I look like a 12-year-old boy, but not in a good way.
Now the really weird part comes. I’m going to be home, probably for the week. I have the sick time, and I have a good substitute teacher filling in for me, however, it’s still weird being out this long. I’ve never missed even more than one day in a row except for when my parents passed away, so being home when everybody else is where they’re supposed to be is going to be a bit of an adjustment. I do have grading to do, and of course, there’s always “blogging.” Perhaps I’ll do some reading? Yeah, reading, what a good idea. Of course, that could just be the anesthesia talking. Instead, I think I’ll power-watch my way through a highly regarded Netflix series. I just need to remember my password. Damn, what’s my birthday again?