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Copyright © Louis Schmier and Atwood Publishing.
Date: Tue 6/29/2004 4:50 AM
Random Thought: Laparoscopy
Did you know that laparoscopy isn't Latin for "quick" and "easy."
I thought it did. It doesn't. Then, again, Latin and I weren't bosom
lovers in high school. Talking about being made painfully aware how
simple-minded I was, I also thought think laparoscopy may have been Greek
for "painless" and "simple. Never having had invasive surgery, never
having taken pain meds, never having taken novocain when the dentist
drilled and ground, having a himalayan high threshold of pain, I didn't
have a clue. I was cavalier to think that this surprise hernia surgery
would be a quick-in-quick-back-to-normal operation. After all, when it
popped up I wasn't in pain or discomfort or anything. It was just an
innocuous bulge. After all, I wasn't going to be sliced open. After all,
the surgeon was only going to make three very small poke holes. After
all, I was going to be in and out of the hospital and back home in
literally five hours. I was convinced I'd be working out and power
walking and building and gardening as if nothing had happened within a
week! I refused to listen to my Susan who has a tic-tac-toe board of
surgical scars decorating her beautiful stomach. After all, why should I
listen to her. Her pain threshold is so low that a splinter puts her into
ICU while mine is so high that I've had a 16 penny nail go through my foot
leaving me with little more than a mild residual ache.
But, you know "in-and-out" is a far cry from "up-and-at-'em." My
abs quickly clued me in. "Hey, macho man, you can't move a muscle without
us," they smirked. "You mess with us; we'll mess back with you." Doggone,
mess with me they did. Being careless enough to think this operation was
a "piece of cake," I was quickly eating crow.
Luckily, I have my guardian and healing angel. Heeding the
doctor, my angelic Susan put chevrons on her sleeves, and became something
between a steely eyed, stern voiced, commanding drill sergeant and a
smiling, loving mother hen. I think I'm at the receiving end of what is
called tough love.
My Susan understands with her low threshold of pain. She
understands pain. She knew better than I what I was about to go through.
So, she could be understanding of my pain when I first couldn't. She
wasn't surprised when I was at first stunned. Of course, this didn't stop
her from lovingly rubbing a little "get even" salt of "I told you so" into
my three laparoscopic wounds. This has been a humble lesson for me. I
won't forget how I, during those first few days, needed an engineering
degree to get in and out of bed without feeling I was being drawn and
being pulled apart on a torture rack. The second day, I surprised myself.
I felt the pain after the surgical anesthetic wore off. I knew if I felt
the pain, it must be some kind of pain! I didn't run away from it or deny
it. In fact, I screamed out, "Screw this macho shit. Give me those
meds." And, to my surprise, I didn't feel the lesser for it. I actually
felt smarter, more relieved, and more relaxed. I didn't have to play the
grimacing he-man role and put on airs. In fact, I called my expectant
daughter-in-law to proclaim, "The hell with natural childbirth. Take the
epidural!"
After two weeks, no workouts; no quick movements; no lifting more
than ten pounds. I haven't power walked since the Wednesday before
Memorial Day weekend. I am forbidden to bend over, to sit at the computer
for extended times, to tend my garden, to haul building materials, to
build what I wanted to build, to climb slowly more than a flight of
stairs. The best I can do is stroll for about a mile each day at what is
for me a tired slug's pace. Anyway, after two weeks, to my surprise I
have been a disgustingly obedient and patient patient. No biting at the
bit; no sneaky disobedience; no objections. Just a series of submissive
"yes, ma'am" to my caring Susan.
I had another surprise. Two days ago, a close friend of mine had
laparoscopic gall bladder surgery. I found how I could identity better
with her distress and pain; I wasn't judgemental as I might have been; I
moved towards her pain rather than be cavalier about it and dismiss it as
a weakness. In fact, I took on her husband, who sounded like I would have
two weeks ago. He told her to get up and moving because it "was nothing,
but a few holes. I get bigger holes when I step on nails at the job
site." And I came to her defense. I, who, had always chided my Susan
threse nearly forty years about her low threshold of pain.
So, here I am, with three slowly closing, very itchy, annoying,
highly sensitive, distracting, restricting holes lined up in a row across
my stomach (I hope the one below my belly button heals so I have a
"smilely"), stranded to meditate on the pre-dawn newly screened-in patio,
on the front door stoop, or by the fishpond. And, my thoughts this
morning are stunning me.
I am now like a baby who is encountering a sound for the first
time. I listen more and better to pain. I am less pained by pain. I
have pained and I have gained. I have expanded my empathy and compassion.
It is no longer sabotaged by an arrogant and self-righteousness feeling of
some kind of superiority because I am able to suffer through and endure
pain, and that there's an inherent inferiority about being otherwise. It
has increased my capacity to care. It has given me a greater
appreciation. It has strengthened my connections. It has made me more
intently aware. It has sharpened my ability to listen. It has made me
more present and devoted. I am more moved by distress. I am less in my
way.
This operation may have poked holes through my abs, but it has
also opened my heart; it may have temporarily weakened my stomach muscles,
but to my surprise it has permanently strengthened my heart muscle.
It's a good lesson for the classroom for honoring the reality
of the physical, intellectual, social, and personal pains of students;
for noticing students who are in need.
It's a good lesson for life.
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