Why Surgery Will Make You Giggle

If you want to experience gales of laughter, sign up for surgery.  Sure, there will be excruciating pain. But it seems a small price to pay to be exposed to the peculiarities of today's surgical practice. The duplication, primitiveness and conventions are bound to crack a rib as you bend over in laughter.

Five weeks ago I underwent rotator cuff surgery on my right shoulder. In the weeks leading up to the arthroscopic procedure, a daunting pile of documents flooded my email inbox.  Most were questionnaires about my physical health, previous surgeries and family medical history.

Here is a sample: Most recent surgery? (Tonsillitis 65 years ago). Have you experienced chest pains? (Only when the Dallas Cowboys blow a game.) Do you have any diseases? (Does hair lost count?) Do you have an enlarged prostate? (None of your damn business.)

The best was: What is your experience with anesthesia? (Well, it makes me sleepy.  In fact, I usually lose consciousness.  I try not to drive while I am under the influence.  Or make life-changing decisions, like attempt to order a specialty latte at Starbucks.  Is that specific enough?)

Every time I answered a health questionnaire, another surfaced. The doctor needed one.  The surgical hospital required the same information.  When I arrived at the surgical unit, the questions were repeated.  For gosh sakes, does anyone know how to share medical data?

To punish the patient, the surgical unit requires you report at dark thirty.  Then the doctors make you pace anxiously in the waiting room for hours as you contemplate your last moments above ground. McDonald's serves 200 burgers and fries in the time it takes you to enter the surgical hall of horrors.

Once inside the sterile facility, the nurse asks what kind of surgery you are having.  Really?  No one had clued her in?  "Rotator cuff," I moaned. "Which shoulder?" I looked stunned. "Right," I mumbled. She used a marker and placed an "X" on my right shoulder.  I'm not making this up.

Then the orthopedic surgeon bounded into the room after I was hooked up for an IV.  Nice man, but he too seemed befuddled.  "We're doing surgery on your right shoulder, correct?" he inquired.  I wanted to yell: "How the hell should I know? You are the one who is doing the operation!"

He scribbled his name on my right shoulder. I guess like deer, surgeons like to mark their territory.  It was like the entire surgical unit was confused about which shoulder was to be sliced and diced.  I am sure the doctor wanted to avoid a mistake.  But it doesn't inspire patient confidence.

Next the anesthesiologist arrived at my bedside.  He wanted to know if I had any past adverse reactions to anesthesia.  "Last time I was six years old," I answered truthfully.  "I don't recall."  He looked worried.  Then he proceeded to read a list of all the horrible things that could happen.

He concluded his recitation with this reassuring warning: "The state of Texas requires me to tell you that anesthesia can cause death."  Whoa! I almost leaped from the gurney and sprinted for the exit. No one had mentioned that possibility when I signed up for this journey into surgical Neverland.

As I was wheeled into surgery, I remember thinking: I should have at least eaten a last meal of steak, a fully loaded baked potato and a heaping dish of Blue Bell ice cream.  But the surgical instructions had emphasized a light evening meal.  Even prisoners get to pig out before the electric chair.

When the fog of anesthesia had lifted, I was relieved to know the state of Texas was dead wrong. I had a pulse!  My arm was swaddled in an awkward looking contraption. First thing I checked was to make sure it was my right arm.  I had learned not to take anything for granted.

Shortly, the doctor appeared and pronounced the procedure a success. That was a relief.  However, I half-expected him to whisper:  "I really screwed up.  I thought it was your left shoulder.  I got you mixed up with some guy named Roy Drew.  My bad. Can you come back next week?"

Last week I had cataract surgery on my right eye.  The nurse and the surgeon used an ink pen to write above my right eyebrow.  It took a week of furious scrubbing to remove the ink. This week I have surgery on my other eye.  I am wearing a blinking sign with an arrow pointing to the left eye.