All Trussed Up and No Place to Go

Medial Branch Rhizotomy day, thanks to the car accident that keeps on giving. On arrival at surgical facility, I am escorted to the inner sanctum and allowed to disrobe behind Curtain #1. This time, I confess, I have supplanted my beloved thongs for big-girl panties, just for this event. White cotton with a swirly pattern -- girl's gotta add a little spice, right? After all, I have a reputation. I hope you all are not disappointed that I caved to convention. Please don't tell anyone, 'kay?

Nurse installs the IV on the back of my hand. She is a pro, sticking me in the right spot the first time. What's your pain level on a scale of 1 to 10, she asks. Aside from a nasty two-day migraine, the neck pain is at about 4. She and cohorts assure me I will find much relief after the radio frequency zaps to the affected nerve endings in my cervical spine.

As with pain injections, in the O.R. I drape myself over this makeshift pillow so they can easily get to my neck. The girls have to be resituated a few times, as being pressed into a towel-wrapped cushion with the comfort and density of a Sedona boulder is not their idea of fun. And my girls are no stranger to fun. My caretakers strap my legs to the table, throw something over my granny skivs, and tack my arms to my sides with Velcro strips. Apparently, they do not want me to take flight. I remember then that my procedure involves electrodes and a technique I call Shock-N-Block, and I wonder if I might buck myself off the table without restraints. Will somebody please knock me out before I dwell on that?

I say to the party of five wearing chest protection and gloves normally reserved for x-rays, "Gee, now that I'm trussed up like a turkey, I hope I don't have to make a quick exit."

I hear a timid gobble gobble, but then I am rudely awakened and flipped over, back onto the gurney. That's how fast that anesthesia works and how quickly they rouse me after it's all over but the squawking. I haven't even left the O.R. yet.

In recovery, my neck feels like a baseball bat is wedged under it, and the bandages are too tight. I squawk about the discomfort and they say I can take Tylenol when I get home. Even in my post-op euphoria, I think, Are you fucking kidding me? Tylenol is for pregnant women and pansies. "My pain level is at eleven. You remember eleven, right?" I then lapse back into a pleasantly stoned catnap.

Next thing I know, TG is once again picking up her Sears small appliance and taxiing me home. And now my neck is throbbing. They have not sent me home with Rx for pain. WTF? I call the doc's office and remain on hold for the full 40-minute excursion home in I-35 traffic. Just as we pull into the drive, I speak to someone who has a brain, and she agrees to call in a 'scrip to the pharmacy. I love her. She is getting flowers. But it is another two hours before I get the drugs. The good drugs. Sixty tablets! And me, meds averse, will probably use 3-4 of them. But now I just want some relief from the ninety-pound anvil on my neck, and my daughter is begging me to quit following her around whining like a cranky two-year-old who needs a nap. So I toss one back with a Diet Coke and count off the minutes before sweet relief.

I am not disappointed. May I say, post-op pain is excruciating. Darvocet, on the other hand, is the soothing serenity of seriously sedated gods. And now I must get out of bed and go enjoy another.
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