Waking up from anesthesia after a procedure is a messed up experience as it is. Coming to in a medical environment when it's not planned will turn your brain upside down. I've woken up in ambulances and emergency rooms more times than I care to admit, but waking up in my GP's office after going night-night in a heap on the floor is a singular experience.
Was the air conditioner on this high before? My dainty little examination gown was drenched in sweat and was somehow giving me a wedgie. My forehead was throbbing and I was certain that I was freezing to death.
"Feeling better Mr. Byrd?"
Hell yes! Never been better. Where has this place been all my life.
"I'm a little cold, could I have a blanket please?" Can I have a blanket please. Oh, brother, why don't you give her a tip and add her to your will while you're at it. You make me sick.
The voice was back.
Not my usual don't be stupid voice. Not the hey-everybody-watch-this / great idea voice. Not even my conscience (yes, I have one). But the voice. The voice that second guesses, criticizes, undermines.
The voice.
Right now it was chastising me for not telling the nursing staff how I really felt. For being civil under duress. For being me.
The doctor will be back in to see you shortly. Yeah, sure. Shortly my a...
"Oh,..... yeah. The doctor. That's fine. Can I have a blanket, please? Can I have a blanket please....you really are pathetic when you are hurt, you know that?
The medicine that my other doctor put me one just about had the voice silenced. But two months ago, shortly after the symptoms started, I stop taking all prescriptions and even my daily vitamin. I could only eat jello and broth for two weeks while they tried to eliminate the possibility of poisoning or an allergic reaction.
It all started with the headaches. But they were unlike any headache I had ever experienced. Not the behind-the-eye-sinus variety or the pulsing-skull-I-swear-I-didn't-drink-Yeager'-last-night kind. These were different.
Sharp jets of pain would leap from inner ear to inner ear, back and forth until tears came to my eyes. Then the scars on the back of my head would start throbbing as if they were going to split open and let my synovial fluid spill all over the back of my knotted neck.
The scars. I almost forgot about the scars.
They don't call it exploratory surgery for nothing. If it's done right (or in my case very, very wrong) the procedure is only the beginning of the exploration.
They said it was routine. For them maybe.
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Keep it real, keep it clean, let me have it....