RRR

This fourth quarter of my life so far seems mostly about RRR – Repair, Replace and Rehab.

Recently I’ve been doing Rehab on my lower back and will soon be doing a Repair on (the second) worn-out Achilles Tendon and then more Rehab. And then Irene’s knee will be Replaced and I will be helping her Rehab, best I can. She deserves better than me, I guarantee it.

But those are past and future issues. Yesterday I spent getting my throat and chest cut and restitched. This was an investment in a better future, or at least better sleep. Let me explain.

Yesterday, my chest was opened and a metal device the size of a pacemaker was inserted under my skin. The doctor also went in through the exterior of my neck, fidgeted around until he located the nerve that makes my tongue stick out and attached an electrode to it. Then he brought the little wire across to my chest, attached that to the implanted device, (the process and device being called, for your reference,Inspire), attached a battery to it and stitched it all back up again.

Initially this all seemed a little over the top, somehow, but the doctor had explained to me that this may be the only way to control my sleep apnea, which is so bad my wife has taken to watching me during apnea episodes to see if I will ever breathe again. Normal fixes like CPAP devices might work for me except for my profound anxiety attacks when masks are over my face, even when I’m the one putting them there. (I do, however, now have a nice collection of barely used CPAP masks. Drop me a line if you are interested.)

This doctor will tell you in advance that yesterday’s operation is a benign procedure, doesn’t hurt much, and offers the only real shot at correcting severe sleep apnea so that I, and my wife, can get a few hours sleep at night. It takes a while, however, for this process to show results and yesterday was just another step towards that end. No immediate gratification.

For one thing, before activating the device we must wait for the incisions to heal completely. This takes a month or more. And secondly, they then turn the device on and start dialing it in so that it provides the right amount of stimulation to the tongue whenever it detects I’m having an apnea episode, characterized by my tongue falling back in my throat which then stops me breathing entirely. This device purports to say it can detect those episodes and send stimulation to my tongue, causing it to not fall back into my throat but to stick out, which emulates a normal sleep state and prevents the apnea pretty much entirely, or so I’m told.

I turn the device on at night and off again in the morning by remote control. What will happen when I lose the remote will be a matter of progressive discovery, I think. So maybe I should attach a locator chip to it? Just talking out loud, here.

The operation itself went well, the doctor told my wife. (Which of course is better than the alternative; “I’m sorry and I certainly understand this was just an outpatient procedure, but he stuck his tongue out too far, and I took offense and took a break and he died while I was gone.) But so far, I’d say the operation and recovery weren’t perfect for me for several reasons, as follows:

1. The operation required complete anesthesia. Turns out I’ve probably never had complete anesthesia before, even during my left knee replacement a few years back. In any event I woke up feeling sick as a dog and not at all inclined to high-five the several extraordinarily chipper nurses, who were, no doubt, disappointed that I wasn’t as pleased with life as they were.
2. My face, neck and inside of my throat hurt like crazy. I guess I should have figured this would happen but somehow it didn’t register. I have had a lot of pain lately and did not relish this much more. I suppose I thought that since this was an elective procedure, they’d arrange it so it would be more fun. My mistake.
3. I came out of the operation with my blood pressure about 190 or 200 over 100 or so. It took them a long time – a couple of hours – to get that down, and to control my anxiety that went with it. While that bothered me by itself part of both the anxiety and blood pressure issues was caused by the next item which I suppose I can only blame on bad luck, or perhaps on where I have chosen to live.
4. Since one is only granted a small amount of privacy in recovery, (courtesy of a thin curtain drawn between the spaces) you can hear every word said in the cubicles next to you. The gentleman left of me had extremely strong political opinions which were opposite mine. And he was very loud and didn’t care who knew;  he was sharing his wisdom regardless.

I desired to converse with him but knew it was better not to. But it went on and on, non-stop, false statements stacked on top of each other with nary a break. I complained and eventually this was dealt with creatively by a nurse who turned on my tv and the little speaker at my bed dealt with him sort of like white noise deals with droning traffic noises and the like. But I still knew he was there. So my blood pressure and anxiety stayed high for a long time until at last additional meds kicked in and things began to seem a little more normal.

It’s interesting that at my age I still occasionally want to leap on some moron who desperately deserves it, and that that still causes so much stress. In this case I know that doing something overt could have only ended badly and I must admit I am now glad I didn’t do or say anything. Everybody is entitled to their own ridiculous opinions. And when I went to the bathroom, I peeked in to his cubicle to maybe give him the stink-eye and discovered that besides being loud he was much larger and younger than I am, too.

But what about leaving a little note? Maybe on his big-ass truck’s windshield if I had known which one it was. Good luck on your recovery and both God and I love you but if there’s a next time, please lower your voice in the recovery room. Certainly not what I really wanted to say, of course, and way too long. Maybe just F**k Your Stupid Opinions! Terse Message to Follow!

Of course this is probably all angst due to ageing, or I think it is. Ageing isn’t for the weak of heart. I spend a lot of time depressed and anxious and little operations like this one make me aware of how vulnerable I am. Then there’s all the cosmetic stuff. I am certain I’m nowhere near as good-looking as I remember I was, nor as thin, either. And of course there is the whole meaning of life issue.  I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing for what is probably my last decade. Saying I feel unsettled is part of it but isn’t enough. And like many of the rest of you, I’m concerned about Covid and its variants, and because of that we don’t even get to see the kids much.  I am, however, going to try and find out if there’s a path for me around here, right after I finish up this round of RRR. Whatever it is I’m to do will be God’s will if I can just shut up and listen.