Operation Pinky Pop

Zora continues her recovery. She actually seems a bit more glum than yesterday, but I think maybe that’s just because she’s been tired and sleeping. She’s also in less pain. So maybe she’s just a bit more drugged up. But all is still well.

Tubes galore came out today. Catheter, lung tubes (those hurt coming out), neck tube. And she was moved from the Intensive Cardiac Care to another room (#1004) on the floor. So she is no longer hooked up to as many monitors.

And the room is nice. It’s a single, which we never would have gotten in New York.

Zora was up a bit today. Managing, with help, to get to bathroom on a few occasions. Standing up, she said, was very tiring.

Right now she’s snoring away next to me. Today, for the first time, I was very happy to hear her snore.

Most of this happened when I wasn’t here. So I don’t have much to report on Zora. Once I got here, at 5pm, I went back on down to the Emergency Room, I mean Department, to take care of my pinky. I know, everybody is wondering: Peter, how’s the little finger?! Well, let me tell you:

I went down the E.R. and got checked in again. Ms. B. was nowhere to be seen. Three stage process: check in; name, address, and insurance; and triage. I played it straight once until I got to triage and explained my situation. The guy said I could call down in an hour and see if any rooms had opened up. Then he proposed I have a seat in the back area as he thought a room was about to empty.

After about 15 minutes he said the room wasn’t open. But I could go upstairs and they would call when ready. What a brilliant idea! So I went back up and maybe 70 minutes later the phone rings (it does work in the room, but please don’t call as Zora can’t answer and is in no position to make small talk). I go back down and get looked at, passing the fateful Room 22 where Zora’s sight was not brought back.

I’m treated by a brand new student and a P.A. who knew me from Zora’s entry. There were a few familiar faces from Zora’s entrance. Including the very nice (and attractive) nurse, Tanya. They were all very concerned about Zora, and a bit shocked to hear she had heart surgery. But were happy to hear that at least the surgery went well, even if the vision in the eye is gone.

But back to me... they said they were going to numb my finger, which involves two (they said somewhat painful) shots. I asked if they could just skip the numbing process. I’m tough. And two painful shots don’t sound ideal. So they gave me an ice pack and I let my finger get cold.

Infection

Then the PA took a little scalpel and sliced into my finger, parallel to the nail, just above the root end of the nail, blade end toward my hand. The pus and blood came out the quickly. And he made two more slices for good measure.

Here’s the operating theater after the fact.

It’s interesting that, yes, it hurt. But the pain makes me feel alive…. No, that’s not it, but it was kind of like a good pain. Very much like squeezing a big zit. More interesting is that it hurt a lot less when I watched then when I didn’t. On the second swipe, my view was blocked. And when I couldn’t anticipate the exact moment of blade into skin, it hurt much more. And the pain made me tense my finger, which of course made cutting my finger hurt even more.

I’ve seen a lot of “ugly” stuff as a cop. Abused babies, a leg without its severed foot (bone sticking out and all), dead people, people about to die, shot people, cut people, layers of fat on cut people, and a whole lot of blood. And slicing and dicing in the morgue. None of that bothered me. I mean cops take detours to sees a particularly gruesome scene. 13 people shot? I’m smoking a cigar and making jokes about blood in the buffet meatballs.

It’s been almost five years since I policed. And writing that now I can see that it might sound, well, not right. But when you’re a cop, it just makes sense that you would want to look at a dead body or a blood bath. It breaks the boredom. It creates thick skin. It gives you stories. And it’s just kind of cool.

[The once exception to this morbid delight is decomposing bodies. Luckily, I never had to smell death as cop. Sure I inventoried the bloody clothes of shot people. And that is nasty, but only because it’s wet and bloody. It smells, but not bad. Bloody clothes small, perhaps not surprisingly, like a butcher’s shop. I have smelled decomposing body before. And it’s horrible. And it lingers. And there’s nothing cool about it. But I never got a bad DOA in Baltimore.]

But watching stuff happen to Zora? I don’t want to see it. I know I can handle it. But I don’t want to. In fact, I never liked watching stuff in the hospital, period. I don’t like hospitals. I always wondered how people could work in them. Cooped up with sick people and no windows and bad lighting.

Perhaps it’s the clinical casualness of the pain I find freaky. At least people on the street are actually trying to hurt each other. People in the hospital claim they’re doing it for you own good.

With Zora, I’ve skipped a fair amount of stuff my curiosity would otherwise want to watch. Needle in eye? No thanks. Tubes going in and out. Pass. Basically, I don’t like seeing anything that causes Zora pain. I don’t want to see my Baby hurt.

So I was wondering how I was going to be able to handle watching myself being cut. Without anesthesia. I knew I could handle the actually pain. But what about the queasiness? What about the idea of a blade slicing open my finger? If they were doing it to Zora, I would hate to see it.

It turns out the pain only bothered me when I couldn’t see it. As long as I could watch the man do his stuff, watching a man repeatedly slice a little blade into a tender infected part of my body, I had an amazing clinical detachment. It was cool.

After the cutting, he jammed a little wick into the incision.
This allows the pus to drain. Bizarre. He said I could see a doctor, or, off the record, just pull the wick out myself after two days if there’s no more pus draining. No antibiotics needed. Then he prescribed vicodin. I’ve never taken one before. Or any pain killer stronger than advil. Really. I’ll let you know how it is. Maybe I’ll sleep very well tomorrow night. But if anyone has any advice on how and when to take it and enjoy it most, let me know.

I think the vicodin may have been a sympathy prescription because of Zora. He asked if it hurt. I said, “not really.” He said, “it may start throbbing.” Just between me and you, it doesn’t hurt at all.

I like the dressing that Tanya put on my finger. I’d like anything that Tanya put on my finger. But it does make it a bit hard to hit the left shift key and make capital letters on the right side of the keyboard.

Biking to the hospital today, I took the high road, the direct hilly way. Up 17th Street toward Twin Peaks. Wow. That’s a hill. I made it. Barely. Just when you think you can’t make anymore, the hill levels off… to reveal the second half that is even steeper than the first half. It’s a shame it’s so steep. Because not only is it too steep going up, it’s too steep to go down without breaking. What a waste.

Well, it’s 12:30. Zora is snoring enough that I would poke her if we were home. My beer is almost done. I think I’ll head home. I miss her in my bed.