Let’s see. It’s now three days since my back surgery. After Jim came in and told me that I had a “tear” in the covering of the spinal cord, my ears heard that I would not be going home like two days ago. When my doctor came in and told me the same thing, I simply nodded and nodded off.
I had experienced a “dura tear” and it meant that during surgery, when the doctor handled the piece of stuff that he was cutting out of me, the spinal cord bumped up against a bone spur and oops, fluid shot out. That’s cerebral-spinal fluid, or CSF as it’s affectionately referred to by the neuro-psychos who enjoy that sort of thing. Meanwhile, the hole was plugged up by a special glue, and the protocol required not 24 hours, but 48 hours of complete immobilization. Catheter notwithstanding, I was expected to, yes, do nothing. I, who cannot rest for a second and love to move about and here and there.
So I sprung a leak like a 1968 Volkswagon Beetle. The old days when you used to look under the hood for the problem. The old tangle of tubes and wires which would on occasion cause trouble when a fray or rub would wear a part down. I think that’s where duct tape used to come in handy.
Now, not moving. Courtesy of lots and lots of regular administration of pain-killers. Fast-acting, welcomed, woozy and sleepy all day and all night.
Except for Shirley and her crew. Far into the night, dragging chairs, talking on cell phones, discussing plans and outings with the kids. Houses bought and sold. Remember whens. Uncle Gus is coming up.
Laying flat on my back, all that keeps me going is well, nothing. Wondering how long 48 hours really is. Hoping the next shot hits home. And…it…does.