fickle little machine

the first thing i really remember about waking up after surgery was the nurse in the recovery room telling me that my temperature had dropped to 95 degrees in the operating room, due to the loss of blood and how cold they keep the room. i couldn’t get warm; i asked for a blanket and then woke up again, shivering. she covered me head to toe and then joked about how all she could see of me was the tip of my nose. when she called the nurse’s station to arrange to get me to my hospital room, she said i have lindsey markel here; she is just. so. sweet. the only thing i remember saying to her was that i was cold. once they wheeled me up to the hospital room, i kept telling the 95 degrees story over and over.

i remember seeing larry; i think he came in and kissed me and then left and brought in his parents, who had come from indiana. they bent over me and said hello, then held hands with larry and me around my bed and his father prayed. i remember the way larry looked at me before he had to go back to work, his eyes scanning my face. he told me later that my face had been swollen with fluids, my pupils were tiny, from all the medicines i guess.

my grandma came and brought flowers; i was still riding out the anesthesia and so when she came in i said i hate to say this, but i may have to nap soon and she threatened my life if i were to apologize again. for most of that morning, i fell asleep in the middle of conversations and sentences.

the first time the physical therapist came in and had me sit up, i had to lie back down because my blood pressure dropped and i started feeling very sick. someone grabbed a gray plastic tub and placed it next to my head in case i threw up. a few minutes later, i sat up again and felt okay, took a few shuffling steps next to my bed to prove i could walk.

later, larry came back, my dad and brother came back, and we filled up my room — me in my bed and larry, mom, dad and brandon in scattered seats at the end of it.  we talked all evening; i turned on the television once, after my liquid diet dinner of chicken broth, but turned it off immediately after realizing the speakers were tiny, mounted in my bedframe so only i could hear. at the end of the night, when they were leaving, i said this was weirdly fun and i meant it.

i had the booties on my legs that filled and emptied with air rhythmically, to keep me from getting blood clots; to go to the bathroom, the nurses had to unhook me from those, unplug my iv, and help me walk across the room to the toilet. at night, i had to remind myself not to stack my legs on top of the other when i lay on my side; when one leg bootie inflated, the other leg would lift like i was doing calisthenics.

brandon and mom went to get dinner; texted larry to see if anyone wanted a milkshake from stake n shake. i had just been approved to order from the “full” liquid diet menu. thankfully. the sugar made my teeth gritty and i fell asleep without brushing, since getting up to go to the bathroom was such a nuisance.

morphine. morphine. morphine. my mouth was so dry, no matter how many ice chips larry or my mother fed me, standing over me spooning them into my mouth with plastic utensils. the drip would work every ten minutes; someone noticed in the evening that after eight hours, i’d only hit it six times — i doubled that count before the night was over, waking up on the hour and pushing the morphine button to put myself back to sleep. the nurses come in, turn on the lights, say hiiii! like you’re a long lost friend.

at night, at the hospital, it’s a miracle when you get any sleep. nurses come in on the hour to check vitals. my roommate snored and had this halting, snively voice; i’d drift off in the half-light with my iv beeping and clucking next to me and i’d wake up five minutes later to her, behind the curtain that separated us, talking into her nurse intercom: c-c-can you take me to the bathroom?

the next morning, dr. harms came in; it wasn’t yet 8am and he didn’t lower or soften his voice at all: DO YOU FEEL LIKE YOU’VE BEEN HIT BY A TRUCK? he asked, WELL, YOU KNOW WHO TO BLAME FOR THAT. the surgery took almost two hours when he had anticipated one; my bones had fused so well to the hardware that he had to chip away at my spine to release the metal; he talked about peeling back my muscles to get to it. those images have stayed with me. so far, i feel them every time i move.

they peeled the tape from my hand and unhooked my iv; blood poured from my wrist and the tech muttered angrily about the nurse on duty for not telling her she should wait some minutes before taking it out. blood stained the sheets, met the orange iodine smudges from my spine.

when the day’s physical therapist came in to make sure i could walk and go up and down stairs, we traveled to the fire exit and back and she said, her hand at my elbow, well i’m not used to flying down the hallway!

i came home; i came home. larry had set up my “recovery station” in the living room; the futon turned sideways and loaded with pillows and my old comforter, our old-timey school desk holding magazines, the macbook, glasses of gatorade, flowers. i have the whole series of six feet under and freaks & geeks, the first two seasons of the oc. my tireless mother slept in a recliner at the hospital at the foot of my bed; larry stands over the futon, calls me baby, changed my bandages, is now in charge of all the disgusting stuff but hasn’t flinched once. i hurt. i really hurt. but it will get better. hydrocodone comes every four hours, double doses for sleep. my grandma brought dinner; the doorbell rang twice yesterday with flower deliveries. before i was discharged, the nurse recommended that i eat more calories than i would normally take in, so my body will have energy to heal. can do, doc. can do. guys, sometime soon, come over and look at the hardware they took out of me. it is my finest work yet.

Q: (Grad school officials plz ignore)

Are there any palatable ways to read The Iliad and The Odyssey?

I’ll suck it up if need be.