We Interrupt the Riveting Account of Christy’s Trip to Scotland to Bring You a Shortish and Very Important Message

Regular programing will return shortly.

Being wheeled into the operating room. Again.

After twenty-five years of being a firefighter/paramedic, playing ice hockey with reckless abandon for fifteen years, cross-fit, triathlons, and other physical endeavors that generally thrashed the shit out of my body, I had my tenth orthopedic surgery on October 16th. And it was the dreaded back surgery. I knew the routine well: no food or liquids after midnight, wear comfortable loose clothing, arrive at the surgery pavilion two hours early, sign your name on so many pieces of paper it feels like you are buying a house, sit in the waiting room, and wait. Every time the door to the back opens, you wonder, Is this nurse going to call my name? Follow the nurse to your room, put on a gown that opens to the back, put on grippy socks that are several sizes too big, put on the hair bouffant, tell someone your name and date of birth literally fifty times, a nurse starts an IV, a tech comes and scrubs iodine all over the area to be operated on, the anesthesiologist comes and asks you when you last had anything to eat or drink, do you have any dentures or loose teeth, and any previously surgeries and/or problems with anesthesia? It was all the same as the previous nine times. I can recite this in my sleep. But this time, when my surgeon came to see me, he was masked and had a hair cap on, and I had to ask, “Who are you? Are you my surgeon?” I had actually never met him in person, and his bedside manner was pretty craptacular, which was ok because what I really cared about were his surgical skills. With that said, he left with me saying, “Who in the fuck is this guy and what’s his problem?”

Then Sonya, the scrub nurse, came in and was incredibly nice, and we even shared a laugh. She replenished my questioned confidence. Finally, about thirty minutes later, the anesthesiologist came and wheeled me into the operating room. Everything about the room was familiar—the cold, the sterile smell, the odd, minimalist table that I was going to lie on while unconscious, the bright lights, and the busyness of people in gowns and masks opening things and moving things and working almost like in a large, busy restaurant kitchen.

And then Sonya walked up to me. She stood there, right next to me, and her smile spread outside of her mask. Usually, I always scoot over to the operating table, but this time, Sonya put the sleepytime mask over my face, and I paused for a second, wondering. Then I realized, oh ya, since they are operating on my back, I’m going to have to lie on my stomach. They are going to knock me out while I am still on this gurney and flip me onto the table after I’ve been intubated. Something about that made me uneasy.

The next thing I knew, I heard voices- so many voices, and I strained to figure out where in the hell I was and what these people were talking about. I didn’t feel any pain, just uncontrolled shivering. I spent about an hour or so in recovery and then went home.

OMG my left leg is so weak. What is going on? No one told me about this. Did they nick the nerve? Am I not going to be able to walk normally ever again, let alone go for a run or skate, or play tennis? I can barely get off the toilet. I can’t take care of my dog right now. I can’t believe I’m going through this again—the recovery and pain and being bored and not being able to move around and feeling helpless. And this time it’s my back. The back is literally connected to every part of me.

As I was running straight into this rabbit hole, this little itch on my lower back said, “Hey!” I reached under my shirt to scratch and realized it was the incision site. Huh, I wonder what the dressing looks like. So I walked to the mirror and lifted the back of my shirt. And there it was, a little piece of gauze that had been shaped into a heart. Someone created the thought and took the time to put a little heart on my back. My terse lips transformed into a smile. Without even thinking about it, I felt hope. And then I did what any reasonable person does these days, I took a picture of it (it only took eleven tries to get it centered, it was of course, in the middle of my back). I sent the picture to some friends and then, of course, put it on Instagram. A little hope seed was planted in my heart and the repetition of sharing it with people helped it to grow.

I’m sure you have all figured out the moral of this story. It’s about kindness. Just a tiny little itty bitty bit of kindness matters. Someone (I’m pretty sure it was Sonya) cut a 2x2 piece of gauze into a heart that not only put a huge smile on my face, but stopped the spiral of gloom and doom. I have to leave this dressing on for 2 weeks, so I will see this folded-up piece of kindness for two whole weeks. I’m telling you, the little stuff matters. Whoever did this (Sonya) will most likely never know the difference it made in my day.

I think most of us wish we could change the world, but don’t have the means to end hunger or save all the dogs. But just think of the impact a lot of people doing something as small as shaping a 2x2 piece of gauze into a heart, or buying some random person in line a cup of coffee, or even just holding a door open for someone. Well-timed smiles can even impact someone’s entire day. I’m sure Sonya has no idea the difference she’s made. So think about all the times you’ve probably made even just a small difference for someone, and go make some more.