Chronicles of Convalescing - Part 1

This is the part where I go to sleep on an operating table wearing only a hospital gown while counting back from 100 (I remember getting to 98), and wake up feeling warm blankets all over me... that I really would have enjoyed, except for the stabbing pain of a butcher knife sawing away in my gut. A distant voice says, "Karla... Karla... how do you feel?" over and over again. Ever the over-achiever anxious to please type, in my mind I try to come up with an accurate answer. Will "groggy" give them enough information? Or should I try "disoriented with a touch of panicked thrown in?" Or perhaps "my stomach is on fire and whoever is stabbing me with a knife better knock it off before I get a hold of their lower lip and pull it over their forehead." I think better of that one because my mother taught me manners and that's no way to speak to someone. In the end, I come up with a very faint, "I hurt."

Time doesn't exist. Whether my next memory was 10 minutes or 2 hours later, I can't be sure. The pain is gone and I'm on the sixth floor (Surgical Recovery Unit) in my own room. IV with an antibiotic drip? Check. Blood pressure cuff in place and heart rate clip on my finger? Check. Suction drain at the incision site filling up with red bloody yucky stuff? Check. Eyelids too heavy to keep open for any length of time? Check. TV mounted above the door so I can watch upcoming World Cup matches? Check. The next item will tell me if the last eight years were a dream or reality... The Captain standing by the side of my bed? Check.

I go back to sleep. It's going to be okay.