A Note of Clarification: I have a minor impairment that effects the way I walk, and this piece is about a surgery to try and help that. Since this impairment is clearly visible when someone sees me, I did not feel the need to clarify it in the piece.
Ever since I was a little girl, milk has always been my vice. My family joked that I should have a cow in my backyard; they said my parents would save money with all the gallons of milk I guzzle. When the other kid parents handed down punishments of no pop, I received the punishment of no milk. When I got red nail polish on the carpet, or swore at my sister, I prayed that I would simply have TV taken away, or even soap in my mouth, for the alternative was unthinkably inhumane. If I ever had the misfortune of procuring the dreaded punishment, what could I do? Gulping down water horrified me, the empty, tasteless liquid going down just enough so that it caught, forcing me to take another painful gulp. Pop was unfathomable, with its obnoxious carbonation prickling every inch of my tongue, and making me burp for hours after downing the repulsive concoction. However, the coup de gras, the worst of the worst, was sticky, pulpy, acidic juice. Not only did the acid burn my unsuspecting throat, but the sticky pulp stayed on my teeth for days, no matter how hard or often I brushed. I could smell that fruity, sickly odor akin to various cough medicines. I could feel the slimy, tacky layer coating every tooth. I could taste it, as I tried to enjoy a juicy, perfect steak; it crept up ruining the delicate flavor profiles and tinting every last bite with acid. Yes, those were the days when I went to sleep longing for the soft, smooth, quenching, calming, neutrality of milk, as it haunted me standing unreachable on the top shelf of the fridge.
As I grew, milk deprivation must have been scratched from the parent playbook, because my mother moved on to different, “tougher” punishments. However, there was one time, one day still in my life that made me feel as helpless as I did years ago - Surgery Day. The torment started at midnight the night before; I was not allowed to drink or eat anything until after surgery. At 11:58 I ran down stairs, clutched the coveted jug in my hands and easily downed three large glasses. Then I watched, in mourning, as the small digital clock, illuminating the whole kitchen, turned, 11:59…12:00.
The next day, my mother and I made the two hour trip to a nearby hospital. To help my walking gait, I was going to have my femurs broken and then derotated. On the way there I sat, legs pulled protectively up to my chin and hugged tightly to my chest, starring out the window. I looked down at my hips, the skin, smooth and perfect, and cringed as I thought of the purple, ugly discolored scars that would soon take their permanent place.
When we arrived, the doctors and nurses took me into a small room, as they prepared the operating room for surgery. This antechamber, badly in need of a makeover, as most hospital rooms are, had pastel covered walls, accented by a matching checkerboard pattern on the curtains, and a pink plastic chair rail, circa 1987. I wondered why hospitals were always overtly outdated, and why in addition to the smell of disinfectant teaming from every corner, they always had the same distinct style – or lack thereof. As I sat with my mother in nervous anticipation, a younger doctor walked through the sliding glass doors, knelt down to stare into my twelve year-old face, and spoke, “Good Morning. I am Doctor Brown, and I will be one of the doctors performing your surgery today. I thought I might tell you what we will do during your surgery, if that’s okay with you?” Interested, this being the first time I had ever been trusted with information of this magnitude, I nodded, silent. “Well,” started the doctor, “we will start by washing your legs in a brown/yellow disinfectant, just to make sure the area is completely sterile…” I could feel my insides start to rage, forming a silent hurricane. Heat rose to my ears, my eyes, my scalp, while simultaneously all the color of my face drained away, causing me to sweat freezing bullets. The doctor, whose voice was a million miles gone, became a blur. My stomach did summersaults, and in a dying declaration, triggered me to dry gag. Someone must have noticed the look on my face, as a bed pan was put under my mouth, just in time, as I regurgitated clear, foodless slime. Ashamed, I was unable to handle the even the introduction, I turned to my mother, who gave me a hearty, comforting smile.
Eventually, I was moved to a gurney, wheeled through the imposing “DO NOT ENTER” doors, and into a sea of blue. Everyone wore blue scrubs, blue face masks, blue shoe covers, and blue hairnets. I turned to my mother walking beside the gurney, who ironically mimicked the same style as everyone else, and said, “Mom, it’s the land of the Smurfs.” She laughed, saying, “Yes. Yes it is.” In the middle of the hall, we went through another set of doors, into the operating room. It was something straight out of a science fiction movie. Aside from the “Smurfs” who stood interspersed with various, important-looking medical machinery, the room was stark white, from the flat operating table taking up most of the center, to the light suspended above, whose many branching lobes made it look like a giant white spider hanging from the ceiling. “1…2…3” two of the Smurf’s said in unison as I was hoisted to the operating table, never to walk under my own power again for months. As the general anesthesia was placed over my mouth, my mother, face obscured by a mask, grabbed my hand and looked at me as I starred right back. “Okay,” the anesthesiologist spoke soothingly, “tell me about your dream vacation.” Adlibbing I replied, “There is a beach, and the sun is warm, a nice hotel with soft beds, and a pool, and the…” I stopped abruptly, as I was certain I was suffocating. With each breath I took, there was less air to breath; the gas was closing in, chocking me. My chest grew tighter and tighter, I was certain I was dying. Unable to speak, I starred intensely at my mother, trying to communicate my anguish. She must know I am dying, she must know. She will have them take this contraption off, we will go home, away from this horrid place, and I will be safe. Her eyes registered only serene concern, her face untroubled. As my body fought hard against the drugs entering my system, I focused all of my depleting energy on my mother’s eyes, tensing my face and staring wide-eyed in fear up at her. Then, I succumbed.
A faint voice whispered above, "Audrey, we are going to take an X-Ray of your legs now, try and stay still." I tried to open my eyes so I could see who was speaking with me, I could not. I tried to make a gesture of understanding, I could not. I noticed two alarming things: a searing pain at my hips, dulled artificially with the help of drugs, and my acute dry throat. I was powerless to do anything, so instead, I fell back into slumber.
A while later, I woke up in recovery, asked the time of the friendly nurse sitting bed side, and learned that I had been out for eight hours. I tried to raise my head a little, but overwhelmed by nausea, I abandoned the attempt. I wanted to tell the nurse of my throat, growing more painful with every breath, but I was too shy and too sick. I would later learn that the pain in my throat was due to a breathing tube, which had completely dried out the area. I waited, for what seemed like hours, to get to my room and see my parents. Finally, I was moved into my private room, where my mother and father sat waiting. It was then, I made my desperate plea, “Mom, I am so thirsty, please, please can I have some milk?” I said in cracked voice, which made me sound like a 60-year-old smoker. Both my parents laughed, “We knew that would be the first thing you asked for, but no, you cannot have milk now, just get some rest.” My heart sank, and the pain in my throat seemed to intensify, regardless, I fell asleep.
When I woke later, my mother was in the room quietly watching the television in the corner, I called to her, “Mom, can I have milk now?”
“The doctor said that for now all you can have is ice chips.”
“ICE CHIPS?” I retorted in disgust.
I was utterly defeated. My throat was the Sahara Desert, and the only offered relief was ice chips? Since I had no other options, I requested the ice chips, no matter how pitiful the relief they may bring. It turned out that the ice chips made the situation worse, for they, with their tantalizing promise of hydration, just sat on my lips, or dried up completely before they reached my throat, ratcheting up my thirst even more.
That first day was awful, but that night was worse. I was up the majority of the time, and I wanted to talk to my mother, but I had to keep this to a minimum, as whenever I spoke my muscles tensed, triggering another round of searing and burning at my hips. As the night wore on, the pain became more and more unbearable, more and more intense, giving in, I called for the nurse. My relief came in the form of a larger male figure, whose face was faintly illuminated by the bright lights of the hallway. “Where do you feel pain?” he asked authoritatively. I answered, at which point he increased the level of morphine I was given. My mother said laughing, “Just give her enough so we both can get some sleep.” I laughed, even though it hurt.
The days wore on, and somehow, the pain decreased. I was denied milk for days, I did, however, graduate from ice chips to Jell-O — a major event in my life. Eventually, though, the glorious day came when I was given the okay to eat whole foods and drink milk. My mother brought it up from cafeteria. On the pastel tray sat Mac and Cheese and some fruit, but like a target I zoned in on the carton of milk, similar to the ones which I had with my school lunch for years, hardly big enough, but it would have to do. I drank the liquid slowly, savoring each sip. My throat was the bank of the Nile during the seasonal flood. After months of drought, my throat was finally becoming fertile, nourished. As I tipped back the carton, to get the last drop, I smiled, because I knew that no matter how hard things got, I would always have milk to make it just a little bit better.
I apologize for the lack of tabs. I couldnt figure out how to get them in this program, if anybody knows how, please let me know. Thank-you for reading
Audrey
<--- Dancing elephant!
But anyways, le's get started!