Aortic Catheterization

Today I had a pre-requisite test for my heart’s and flower’s event next month. An Aortic Catheterization. That’s where they punch a hole in an artery in you sirloin and run a roto-rooter with a cell phone attached to it up to your heart. They snoop around the aorta taking selfies with the valves. It’s rad (do kids still say rad? Groovy.)

Having had the latest storm of the century yesterday, of course I was concerned about making it there. I didn’t want to reschedule this important test, since my surgery is just four weeks away and my condition is serious. Now how often is something pertaining to me ‘serious?’ Maybe I should make my last grill and condiment? I managed to get my driveway plowed last night, which was unnerving since the guy (are we still allowed to call guys guy?) who has plowed me out of snow nirvana in the past wasn’t answering his phone. I had to shop around and call some people until I found someone who would come out last night and do the snowy deed.

Unfortunately, the girl (are we still allowed to call girls girl?) who was taking me there, and who had a guy (sic) regularly plow her out, wasn’t sure if she’d be in the all clear(ed) mode. And, Wednesday morning, calling her (is her OK?) at 6:00AM, she was still as stuck as a popsicle in Arendelle. We had spoken the previous night and the plan B was for me to drive over there, pick her up, go to Backus, and give her my car keys. She’d bring me home and keep my car for a day or two and we’d bring it back. Which is what we now had to do. Not a big deal, since I won’t be doing much of anything for a day or so.

I got there, checked in, got my Pandora style arm bracelet, reported for scrutiny at Cardio-Cath Land and started the whole process. I met my nurse (Pauleen,) changed into the dignity denting gowns, and lay, supine, on the gurney to be plugged into the Matrix. I got an octopus of suction cup electrodes around my chest, a cuff on my bicep, shaved in various, ahem, intimate places, and plugged for an IV. Yes, the needle.

Pauleen inspected my arms and declared that I have great veins. Magnificent veins. You don’t know how often I hear that in bars. No, really. I don’t even have the tourniquet on and they are quite prominent. Oh, goody. I always wanted to impress girls with my physique. She chose a nice, juicy one on the back of my hand and prepared to penetrate. The needle went through the skin, into the vein, and then… She couldn’t get it to ‘go all the way.’ The little capillary tube thingy wouldn’t go through the needle and into my luscious vein. Talk about frustration.

She said something about maybe she used the wrong gage of roofing nail and tried again on another cute vein. Love ‘em and leave ‘em.  She had to take off my Pandora Dog bracelet to get to it. Same problem. The cannula wouldn’t advance into the vein. We’ve all been there. Don’t feel bad. She called for an expert. How humiliating.

A Ninja Phlebotomist, Jane, arrived on the scene. She surveyed the situation, chose another vein, and tried the same thing. With the same results. Should I blame myself? She then tried another, darker approach. She turned my hand over to my wrist, applied two tourniquets, waited for my vein to nearly burst with antici----pation, and then went for the vulnerable parts. How kinky. This time she had the nurse help her. Oh, a manage-a-trois! Nurse 1 manipulated the needle while Nurse 2 tried to get a syringe of liquid to go through. It started, slowly, but with resistance. They shifted positions, moving the needle around, and finally got it where it was a passable exchange of fluids. Go, little cannoli, go.

The problem, she explained, was that I must use my hands a lot. I worked with computers, meaning I was always using my hands and fingers on a keyboard. I also work with wood. These made my veins grown in response to the energy demands of my hands. Unfortunately, that also made extra valves grow in those oversized veins. The valves keep the blood from going the wrong way and pooling in there, somewhere. So when they stuck a needle in one, it looked good, but when they tried to insert the little tube, it got stuck in valve land.

I always have to be difficult.

Next I met the doctor, Dr. Needleman. What a great name for a doctor in a show. He filled me in on all that was going to take place, the risks, and had me sign a waiver.

And away we go! To a prep room, where they transferred me to another table/gurney. They hooked up some anesthetic drip to my IV. It was Valium and something else. Since Valium makes you forget it’s not surprising that I can’t remember what that was. Then back to my original room. Huh? I was to stay there for another hour, presumably so the cocktail of sedatives would take their toll on my consciousness. Pauleen told me it would make me drowsy and not super aware. In minutes I was out like a light.

I woke up back in my room. I don’t remember a thing about the operation. Probably a good idea. Dr. Needleman came in and gave me a CD of pictures they had taken. I hope they got my good side. I hope I have a good side. The world went blank. And then unblank again. For a minute I thought I was still waiting for the hour to end so I could go to the OR. After all, she said I would be somewhat aware. Bring it on. Slowly, it dawned on me that it had already been brought on. Now it was brought off. I had something to eat and had to wait an hour or two before I was eligible for escape.

On the way out I realized what a pain for profit hospitals are. The uniforms with Amalgamated-Mega-Medical embroiled on them, along with slogans like, ‘We Keep Good Things in Life!” or ‘Consider the Alternative. We sure could!’ The IV bags in vending machines out in the hall next to the ice machine. The little refrigerators full of little nips of pain killer in your room. And the tips! For the nurse. The needle specialist. Nurses station. Doctor. OR techs (I don’t remember them. I just assume they picked my pocket.) And that guy who brings you out to the parking lot in a wheelchair when it is boot time. And I’m not talking about just dollar bills! That’s capitalism for you. Well, it’s worth not dying, I suppose.

My ride came and brought me home. Her driveway had finally been plowed, I’m glad to say. In a day or so we’ll arrange to get my car back.

And then. The real ordeal.