For my entire life to the age of 17, I had always been disgustingly healthy. I was never seriously sick. I had never been hospitalized: I never even had my tonsils out. I had never had a broken bone or a serious injury. I had only ever been to the doctor for routine checkups and immunizations. I knew virtually nothing about hospitals or surgery.
So they admitted me to the hospital the night before my surgery, which was scheduled first thing in the morning. I got the warnings about not eating or drinking anything the night before. That was all fine. They came and got me in the morning, took me into pre-op. When they put the anesthesia mask over my mouth, they told me to count backwards from 10. I don’t think I got to 9. Next thing I knew I was in post-op, groggy as hell, in pain, and with my leg wrapped up in bandages several inches thick.
I could deal with the pain in my knee. I had expected it to be painful. What bothered me was the needle in my arm. It hadn’t occurred to anyone to inform me, before the surgery, that when I woke up post-op I would have an IV needle in my arm. I’ve always been fine getting shots, but shots involve a needle being stuck in you and then removed almost right away. I had never had a needle sitting in my arm, poking through my skin, just sitting there in me.
That needle was making me mental. I couldn’t stand it.
All I could say was “Get this needle out of my arm.” My mother was there, of course. She asked if I wanted water or juice. “No, I want the needle out of my arm.” Do I have to use the bathroom? “No, I want the needle out of my arm.” There was some kind of respiration or oxygen meter — they wanted me to take deep breaths and then breathe out into the tube attached to the meter. I’m sure it was something to do with the type of anesthesia they had used — they wanted to make sure I was breathing normally and getting enough oxygen. All I could say was, “I can’t breathe until they take this needle out of my arm.”
My mother was getting annoyed with me. The nurse didn’t know what to do. Finally someone called the doctor, who decided I would recover better without the IV, if it resulted in a calmer mental state.
I don’t know why that needle bothered me so much, but it did. I have a feeling that if they had only told me before the surgery that it would be there, I could have been mentally prepared for it. It probably still would have bothered me, but I think I would have dealt with it a lot better. As it was, the IV needle was a complete and total surprise to me, when I woke up after the surgery, and I was trying to assimilate its presence at the same time that I was coming out of anesthesia (for the first time ever) and experiencing major pain in my knee.
Attention, doctors, nurses, anesthesiologists, and mothers everywhere: Tell your children what to expect when they’re going in for surgery or any other medical procedure.
To this day, I still have issues with needles in my arm. I can get a shot, no problem, but having a needle in me for any length of time just bothers me. I’ve given blood a couple of times, and both times I came awfully close to passing out. I don’t attempt to give blood anymore. With the many surgeries I’ve had since that first one, I’ve gotten somewhat used to having an IV needle in my arm, and I don’t get hysterical about it, but it probably bothers me more than the actual surgery does. There’s just something about a needle sitting there in me that I don’t handle very well.
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