I knew this was going to be more interesting than most heart catheterizations when the mic’d up voice behind the glass asked about RN Erin’s “booty call.”
“What? Was that God?” I asked no one in particular, lying flat on my back in a glorious state of conscious sedation.
Turns out while under the influence of fentanyl, I believe God is an eye-rolling, smack-talking hospital technician named Alesha. (She is not.)
“Girl, it’s BUDDY call, not booty call,” she laughs. “But you know we’re going to run booty into the ground now.”
RN Max concurs, his smiling hazel eyes peering above a teal mask. “Erin’s still in training and needs a buddy when she’s on call,” he adds.
Of course, she does. (I need a pen.)
Mostly, I can’t believe I’m still wide awake, out of pre-op and in actual op, so I politely insist on another shot of pixie dust. Thoroughly embarrassed at this point, RN Erin obliges.
“Thanks, cookie. You’re, um, like 50 shades of red,” I say, feeding the highly inappropriate workplace booty beast.
Alesha thinks I’m funny. Erin hopes I’ll shut up and sleep.
What follows is from my semi-lucid brain: snippets of how’s-your-golf-game banter with Dr. Steve Almany, now head of Troy Beaumont’s heart cath lab, the 17 years since our last visit, his three teen sons and whether we’re still with the same partners. (No and no.)
Luckily, the renowned interventional cardiologist decided to thread the catheter through my wrist’s radial artery – instead of the groin’s femoral – and fish it into the left side of my heart. Less risk, discomfort and quicker recovery.
I remember dozing, seeing flying monkeys and wondering if happy little bluebirds fly, then why, oh, why can’t … wait, what?
“All clear, kid. No blockages.”
That was definitely God, whom I now believe is an amiable 60-ish doctor named Steve.
Clear coronary arteries mean a more likely chance of less-invasive mitral valve repair surgery through my side on May 29. No chest cracking.
Life just got a whole lot better.
I feel a huge sigh of relief. Later, in recovery, I cry tears of joy between bites of the best damn hospital turkey sandwich ever. (Saving the Lorna Doons for later.)
What’s next: a few days of rest, no cooking, cleaning, driving or … texting?!
Those who know me wonder how I’ll survive.
Rebecca does a backflip and hides my phone.
(Copyright 2018)
