Under the Knife
Or: Karmic Debt Payment Plan, Installment 3

There’s something quite out of body when you have surgery. All the while as you get closer and closer to the moment under the knife, you see yourself from up above as an actor, as if you - the person on the gurney - and all these quite professional people who are preparing to cut you open, are all part of the elaborate drama that will soon end when a director, not a doctor, yells “Cut!!”

But this nervous wish lasts precious few moments; as you sit outside the operating room (the name of the room itself enought to inspire reverence, fear, awe) looking up from your supine position on your moveable bed at the lights and ceiling tiles and the table upon which you will be sliced, reality sets in and you silently hope for the best.

I suppose of all the degrees of surgery that are possible, mine was a rather tiny little slice, the likes you might see from a cocktail party host or hostess as they snip a wafer of cheese for a hungry guest. (I won’t go into details where my little slice was performed, or expand upon the ailment; less to spare you the ugly details and more to save me what tiny little face I have left after it all.) Yet, it’s difficult not to view the experience as a brush with mortality, a wake up call from above, a sign or omen that “You must change your life” (said the German poet Rilke) or at least realize that you must live and you must die (of necessity for both), and these two facts are two sides of the same coin. When you only choose to see one side while ignore the other, there’s hell to pay when the coin gets flipped. (Note to self: This applies to all dualities, all polar opposites, Heaven and Hell, and all that good stuff; hence, the Karma debt payoff plan.)

I have to say that it was not a bad experience, and I was surprised at how nice and friendly and efficient the whole staff was. Too much TV and Film has given me a negative image of hospitals, and perhaps there are horrible ones. I suppose I was lucky. Or, maybe I realized that when paying off Karmic debt, there’s nothing in the payment contract that says the person steering the boat you and him are riding down the River Lethe has to be unfriendly. He very well might smile and offer you a snack!

It all began as mild pain a week ago which gradually developed into excruciating pain, which led to one visit to the ER on the Saturday. The friendly doctor prescribed lots of drugs and antibiotics, but that did little, so it was back to the ER to wait again on Sunday, and this time, they said Yep, ‘gotta cut it open.’ So they called up a surgeon who would be there in a few hours, while I lay there quite embarrassingly exposed in the gown designed for the size of an infant pygmy. (I don’t know, they must want your ass showing anytime you make a move to instill a sense of humility in you.) The doctor on hand had kindly promised me a much, much desired visit from Sister Morphine, which I anxiously awaited, but never came, because in an ER, the person who’s screaming the loudest gets the most attention, and a terribly contorted man hooked up to several machines and twice as many people had my doctor's attention most of the time. I let the Morphine request go.

Later, the surgeon arrived, perhaps trying out the same cute humor he tries on four year olds, slowly peeking around the corner like some cowboy and saying, ‘Howdy Pardner.’ He very much looked like Charlton Heston’s twin brother. I was quite ready to tell him I left my lifetime NRA membership card at home by accident, but could have someone bring it in if he needed it. He was nice and said that though the procedure could be done in the ER, as a rule he does them in OR. I was glad and agreed. After having the procedure done, it would have been very uncomfortable in the ER.

Next thing I knew I was being wheeled down through the hospital by a man who spoke no English, or maybe a special mumbling dialect of English spoken a the time of the cave man. I thought someone had said this was my anesthesiologist, and I was sure I was going to die from getting gassed because of a language barrier. Truly struck by fear now, I lay wided eyed on my rolling bed as Mumble Man casually wheeled me down through tiled lobbies and waiting rooms lit by lifeless fluorescent lighting, people staring at me shamelessly, the looks on their faces saying, “Wow, poor bastard. Is he going to die?”

Mumble Man finally parked me on my gurney with my feel sticking over the edge in an empty, half-darkened hallway. At the end of the hallway, a small tiny dot appeared. Soon the dot grew into a woman figurine, and then finally morphed into a cheerfully smiling older woman who spoke happily in a halting Eastern European accent. “Yah, and how are you? Are you warm enough? How tall are you? My goodness, so tallm my goodness. We’ll get you all set up here, sure.”

She proceeded to tuck me into a little cocoon of blankets so I was sweating like a madman. The next thing I see above me is a smooth talking anesthesiologist who quickly launches into text book lecture on the two types of methods for anesthesia during the operation. I wanted to say, “Give me the stuff that won’t make me feel any pain,” but I politely pretended to listen to my choices: getting majorly gassed so I pass out and don’t remember a thing (but the danger being I may not wake up or could have a heart attack), or a having huge needle jammed in my spinal chord which would numb the area but not fully knock me out during slice time. It was not difficult to choose the gas. Gas me up, baby.

The next thing I know it was into ... the Room, the panic room, the cutting room floor, the room of reckoning, Orwell’s room 101. This the room where I was to make peace and pay homage to the God of Bright Shining Lights, to get ready to make payment to the Laws of Karma: checks, credit cards and human flesh accepted. People in shower caps and mouth masks stared at me and smiled extra hard so I’d know they were smiling. Nice of them to do so. Not far from my feet I could view a table which looked like a convention-size display for a knife manufacturer, enough cutlery to slice up a couple of cows and a horse. I scanned the selection of hacking tools and wondered which one would best slice up half a pound of Mortadella, which would work well dicing some salami (thick cut), and which would do its magic chopping up a quarter pound of Me?

Just then Gas Giver put a mask over my mouth and told me to breath in, normally. (I like how they always ask you to do things normally. Finger down your throat. ‘OK, breath normally.” Sure, just as you would breath normally when you have a finger down your throat at home.) Nothing happened. I hoped he’d crank it up a notch, but I was embarassed to ask. Then he says, OK take another breath and see how this works. Boom. I was out before I heards him finish his sentence. Next thing I know I’m in a room (post op) with two chatty little nurses old enough to be my grandmother who ask me I’d kindly like some pain killers? I kindly would. Morphine please. How much would you like, Sir? Oh, set me up real good, thanks. Right away, Sir. So polite, so gentile. Did not remember a thing about surgery, and that was just fine with me.

Spending the night in the hospital wasn’t so bad. The pain I had experienced before getting sliced was so intense, so unbearable, I was now just so happy and relieved to be alive, free of pain (for the most part), and to know that the worst was all over. I’m alive. The poor old man next to me had trouble breathing and hearing snored some bizarre rattle all night long, but I didn’t care. Sister Morphine was working her magic, and adequate Karmic debt had been paid (hopefully).

I called my father later in the night to tell him what had happened, and my calm exterior broke. Suddenly, I felt like a four year old again (perhaps the one the old Charlton Heston surgeon was looking for when he peeked around the ER curtain) and could not help but cry. I never cry in front of my father. Of course, I held it in enough to keep up face, but he knew. When I hung up the phone, the water works began. I cried for quite a while. That’s when I thikn the laws of Karma started to rebalance themselves a little.

Post Script: Irony in Little Orange Bottles

The great irony regarding this experience is, before I went to the hospital, I was in terrible, excruciating pain, and had nothing to stop the suffering, except the few moments I could steal a few small snatches of sleep. Yet, now that the demon has been excised from my body, they have prescribed me more pain killers than I know what to do with, enough Vicodin (synthetic narcotic similar to Morphine) to send Wynona Ryder and Courtney Love on a doped up shoplifting crime spree for at least a month. These pain killers are strong stuff. I know, I’ve taken a few already. I appreciate the ability to stop my pain, but the pain had reduced drastically, and all the while these two little jars of addiction smile at me, sinisterly trying to lure me back to the realm where karmic debt accrues as quickly as patients fill a hospital emergency room.