The Break - Part III: Surgery
I woke up late the next morning to 25-30 text messages and four missed calls from my mother. Only then did I recall posting an Instagram from the hospital late the previous night, and as a result several friends/family members reached out to check in on me. Those messages made me feel really good, and they definitely provided me with some much needed encouragement.
Eventually, I got up the courage to call back my mom. I needed to explain to her that I was practically incapable of pronouncing my own name for the duration of my stay in the emergency room, let alone have an intelligent discussion with her about my medical situation.
After squaring away a couple of administrative issues such as emailing my manager and informing her that “I was probably going to need to take some time off”, my mom drove into Manhattan to pick me up and bring me back home to New Jersey. She said she wanted to keep an eye on me and help figure out next steps for treatment. Normally, I'm pretty independent and would have protested this, but I didn’t put up much of a fight because going back to New Jersey meant some great home-cooking and probably an assortment of baked goods.
***
“So they recommended three surgeons for you, Andrew. I’ve called all of their offices and left messages.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Did I mention my mother is a control freak? That was another reason I ended up being extremely glad to be home. She took the initiative to set up all sorts of calls/appointments while I watched daytime television in a medication-induced stupor.
Speaking of daytime television, my first day back home in New Jersey was the start of a very meaningful relationship I developed with Steve Harvey. Every afternoon at 3 PM I laid on the living room couch and laughed at Steve’s antics for 60 wonderful minutes. I’ll always consider Steve to be my buddy after all the time we spent together during that time.
My favorite daytime television show host was Steve Harvey, but occasionally I tuned into Ellen as well.
***
“We got a call back! The surgeon said he can fit you into his schedule, but it needs to be done tomorrow (Thursday).”
“You mean I need to have surgery tomorrow?”
“He said the break needs to be fixed as soon as possible to improve the chances of a full recovery without long-term damage.”
I already mentioned that I’m not good with hospitals. I also don’t particularly enjoy surprises. So when my mom relayed the news that I was going to have surgery in less than 24 hours, I did not exactly take it in stride. (No pun intended. Just kidding, definitely pun intended.)
***
But let’s backpedal for a second.
What’s noteworthy here, is something that turned out to be one of many incredibly lucky things that happened to me following my injury.
Before I’d left the Bellevue emergency room around 3 AM Wednesday morning, the nurse gave me a packet with a few referrals/suggestions for orthopedic surgeons. Naturally, those were the first offices my mom called. We didn’t have much luck with any of them. Then, she randomly got a call from one of her good friends in town. Her friend happened to be the mother of one of my buddies from elementary school, who now worked as a medical supplies sales representative for several hospitals in Manhattan and the Bronx.
Wouldn’t you know it, my buddy from back in the day was looking through x-rays during his morning shift at Bellevue Hospital (no more than 3-4 hours after I had been discharged). This was part of his normal inventory-taking process, as he would get an idea of which/how much supplies would likely be required for surgeries that week. As he was going through the files, he stumbled upon the x-ray of my broken leg and noticed my name. Not only did he call his mother (who proceeded to call mine), but he informed an orthopedic surgeon whom he frequently supported—one of the best orthopedic surgeons in New York City, I might add—of my situation. That surgeon’s office was the one that called my mom on Wednesday evening to say they could “fit me in” for surgery (casual) on Thursday evening, January 14th, at NYU Hospital for Joint Diseases. My Bryant Park wipeout occurred at approximately 8:30 PM on Tuesday, January 12th. That meant I would be having surgery to repair my leg less than 48 hours after my injury. It was something of a mini-miracle, and while I was nervous about the surgery itself, I was extremely lucky that it was going to happen on such a quick turnaround.
***
“Hello, Andrew. Nice to meet you. I’ll be performing your surgery today.”
It was said as nonchalantly as a waiter informing me that he would be serving me breakfast at a diner. He was friendly but serious, empathetic but matter-of-fact, detailed but concise.
“You’ve sustained a spiral fracture of your tibia and a comminuted fracture of your fibula. Since the tibia is the main weight-bearing bone in your leg, I’ll be repairing it via an internal fixation with a rod and screws. Your fibula will heal on its own in six to eight weeks.”
He drew x’s and lines on my leg to mark where the incisions would be, and then asked if I had any questions. The entire interaction took about 90 seconds. My head was spinning. I shook my head and thanked him for incorporating me into his busy schedule. He smiled and was off, the tail of his white coat whipping behind him as he briskly exited the room.
The anesthesiologist came in next. He was stern and had a strong Russian accent.
He told me that I would be going under general anesthesia for the procedure, and asked if I had any questions. Like an idiot, I asked if there was any chance that I would wake up before the surgery was over. (This had always been an irrational fear of mine.) He looked at me incredulously for a couple of seconds, then responded.
“No, sir. That will not happen.”
His reassurance was all I needed. I shook his hand and he went into the OR to make his final preparations.
***
The last person who came into the waiting room was—who else—my buddy from home, the medical sales rep. I wasn’t expecting to see him, so I was pleasantly surprised to see a familiar face. I thanked him profusely for all he had done and he told me that he had re-arranged his shifts so that he could work my surgery. He then showed me a closed, sterilized bag containing a rod and screws. I couldn’t help but laugh.
Here I was, about to have surgery on a broken leg in the middle of a huge hospital in the biggest city in the world, and none other than one of my childhood friends was supplying the hardware that would be implanted into the shaft of my tibia for the rest of my life. The world is a crazy place, folks.
***
“Alright, Mr. Kirnan. They’re ready for you in the OR.”
They wheeled me through the doors to the sight of 6-7 doctors bustling around, preparing machines, readying IVs, laying out tools. I thought to myself, “It's just a broken leg. Surely they don’t need all of these people, do they?”
I did my best to relax and lie down when the anesthesiologist appeared over the top of me.
“This will be simple. Breathe normally and count backward from 100.”
He put the mask over my nose and mouth, and I did as he said. In my mind, I counted...
“100...99...98......97.........96.........”
I looked up at him as he watched me intently. Everything slowed down. My eyelids fluttered as the anesthesia began to run its course. It overtook me.
