No one tells you when you are having surgery that the surgeon is not the most important person in the room. In terms of safety, it’s the anesthesiologist. I learned this the hard way.
After general anesthesia, with a morphine overdose, I woke up so sick I was praying to die. On another occasion, a failed epidural attempt punctured my dura and injected lidocaine into my spinal nerves. The latter resulted in a near-death dural leak and permanent spine injuries. After both, I had been prematurely discharged – essentially abandoned as the anesthesiologist ran off to the next case.
By the time I met Dr. C., I had had: a heart-wrenching conversation with my surgeon; a chat with the executive wing of the hospital, asking them who on their staff they would recommend for anesthesia; and, many near-somnolent hours reading Miller’s Anesthesia, having acquired my own personal copy. The book has over three thousand pages, and I read the whole thing.
I insisted on an appointment with Dr. C. well before my surgery, which was itself unusual. I met him at the hospital and he ushered me into a room that was empty, except for a number of chairs. I took one and expected him to take the one across from me. Instead, he took the chair right next to mine, only inches away.
I was anxious as I unfurled my tales of anesthesia woe, my fears, and the anesthesia plan I had crafted myself after all those late nights with Mr. Miller. Dr. C. listened patiently and intently. When I was done, his first words were, “It’s a good plan; it’s the one I would have suggested.” He went on to tell me he would not leave the room during my anesthesia, and he would also be there when I woke up to tell me exactly how it went. I would also be overnight in the hospital for something that was ordinarily a day surgery, so that anything that came up could be promptly addressed.
When we rose to leave, I was still shaking. Dr. C. reached out to hug me. He didn’t let go until the shaking stopped. Probably it was just a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. “I’m going to be there; it’s going to be okay,” he said into the ear that was buried into his shoulder.
And it was.
Sara Ann Conkling
Cocoa, Florida
