Fabric curtains don’t make great walls. In my pod in the pre-op area I can hear everything going on in the pods around me. We were all brought back here at once, like driving cattle – herded down the long hospital corridor, through the double doors and into the bay of pods. Even though we’re now separated by the fabric, we are all getting “prepped” at the same time. I’m not focusing on them though, because the nurse in front of me is holding an electric shaver; “I have to shave you” she lets me know. I hadn’t thought about this part – that because I’m having a cardiac catheterization, the groin is one of the likely points of entry for the wires that they’ll snake up into my heart. “Oh, I say. If you had given me some notice I would have gotten a nice wax job, but sure, go at it. Please just keep it symmetrical” I snark back. She’s a heavy-set lady with a thick Eastern European accent and a surprisingly large bouffant hairdo under her surgical cap and she laughs so hard that every part of her jiggles, including the hair. She gets to work and I try to convince myself that I’m in a spa somewhere, not in this tan/gray fabric-walled pre-op cubicle. Next up is a rapid-fire rotation of staff who review paperwork with me, put an IV into my arm and ask me, a post-menopausal woman, to pee in a cup for a pregnancy test. Then it’s the ECG tech, the young woman asking if I’ll join a medical study. It’s a flurry of activity and tasks.
And then it all stops. The doctor pops her head in to introduce herself and let me know that there is an emergency case in the ER that she has to do a procedure on and that my own test and procedure will happen after that – probably a 2 hour delay. Honestly this works out well, as my son has an incredibly important and significant event happening at his school today that I was hoping my husband would get to take part in, and this means that he’ll be able to. This becomes another rise in my emotional roller coaster of anxiety and fear that I’m on this morning. I was high up when I woke up early from nerves, then calmed when we were driving to the hospital with the windows down and there was a stunning sunrise. I was riding up again when I had to put on that ridiculous gown and those even more ridiculous plastic-bottomed vomit-colored footies. I came down again as I laughed to myself about the shaving. Up again with news of delay, down again when I realize my husband will get to go to the event, which will ease my son’s sadness about us missing it, and he leaves right away to make it in time, knowing that I’ll just be sitting here in my pod the whole time he’s gone.
The waiting phase begins. Just like we were all herded in to the pods around the same time, everyone else now gets herded out to their respective ORs. All except for me, feeling a bit like a horse that didn’t make it out of the gate. I’m now alone in the pre-op area. The pod curtain is closed, but I hear no more voices save for the nurses’ at the station around the corner, and they definitely take advantage of the down time to chat. I now know that one of them is having relationship trouble, and that another is wearing black underwear that everyone can see through a hole in the back of her pants. I’m grateful for the distraction and amusement, and it keeps my rollercoaster steady. I also realize that I have the pod that is next to the supply cart, which I think is a lot like getting a table at a restaurant next to the bus area.
But soon the next herd is rolled in. And this time I don’t have anything else to do but listen, and because of the curtain-walls, I can hear it all. I strain to sharpen the murmurs coming from every direction. I note the wide variety in how questions are asked, how instructions are given. Tones vary from brusque to caring, volumes from 3-10. “Have you gotten those loose teeth removed since we last saw you?” from next to me (loose teeth are a hazard if you need a breathing tube placed during anesthesia). “I love that tattoo, my husband was going to get one just like it”. And of course, “I’m going to pull your gown up, I have to shave your groin.”