Arthroscopy 3 - Nursey Nursey or Listen to my Heart

I open my eyes. Not sure where I am. My friend, operated on before me and recovered from his catatonic state, is next to me. 

"Hey good to see you" I think I said. A pretty nurse is hovering around me. A machine is beeping above my head. Every few minutes it sounds an alarm. The nurse rushes over and presses a button. The alarm stops. 

"Are you married?" I think I hear someone ask me. 

"No" I answer. 

"That pretty nurse is single" comes the response. My friend is wheeled out of the room. My mind drifts elsewhere. I look around me in a daze. 

"You're in the recovery room," says the nurse, "how do you feel?". I say something, but I can't remember what. My mobile phone rings. Instinctively I answer, assuming it to be my sister. It’s a client. 

"Where are you? We sent you some translation work. It's urgent!" Despite my situation, my commitment to service shines through. 

"I'm in the hospital recovery room. I've just had surgery. I'll have the work done for you tomorrow", I croak. Then I ring off, just before dozing off.

"Beep, Beep". The monitor above my head keeps sounding an alarm, rousing my brain. The pretty nurse runs towards me. Am I still dreaming? 

"Your heart rate is slow, I am keeping you here a little longer" she says. My eyes follow her around the room. 

"Have you ever had a patient who has not asked you out?" I ask. Her constantly stern look cracks into a little smile. 

"It has happened, on occasion" she responds. With my heart rate going awry I suddenly understand the wartime ditty that my father taught my siblings and me as little children, from his army days. "Nursey, come over here and hold my hand, 
I feel awful shy
Nursey when I look at you,
my heart goes boo boo boo,
Nursey Nursey I'm getting' worsey, what ya gonna do?"

The anaesthetist comes by and her opinion of my affairs of the heart is sought by the nurse. 

"Who cares if he has a slow heart-rate. He's clearly a sportsman, that's normal". I giggle in my half-sleep. 

"Look at me - I am a skinny runt. Do I look like a sportsman to you?"

My clothes are brought to me and I make a valiant effort to put on my pants, despite not being able to manoeuvre my leg.

A surgeon – not mine – approaches and tells me what happened during the surgery. I am pleased to receive the report, although I would also be happy if he would just help me get my pants on. However I am disappointed that my surgeon was a virtual ghost throughout this entire process. In fact, for all I know, he may not have even been present during the operation. (I later discover that of the 3 surgeons recorded as present throughout the procedure, his name was not among them).

As my consciousness returns I am helped over to an armchair. I have been the last patient for the day and the medical staff wants to close up shop. My throat is parched and I am given a glass of water. 

My sister and brother in law arrive to the delight of both me and the head nurse who is happy to give me my walking papers. She removes an IV needle from the top of my hand (how did that get there? I wonder). 

"Here are your documents. Keep your leg-bandage dry. You don't need crutches – you can walk to the car from here. Start physiotherapy as soon as possible. Take painkillers as necessary. You have a follow up appointment in 10 days." I try to take in her instructions, but her words all seem to float past my still-drugged up brain. The state of my mind must be obvious. 

"Look, it’s all written on this paper that I am sticking in your bag. Any last questions?" asks the nurse. I looked up at her lovingly. 

"Yes, just one. Do you think I need a haircut?" She flashes me a friendly but impatient smile. 

"Not at all. The curls are cute. Now get out of here".

My brother in law manages to get a wheelchair and I am rolled out of the building in style. You won’t bloody well catch me walking an hour after knee surgery!