I had my kyphoplasty yesterday. You should know that for the last several years, long before this, every single morning I’ve gotten out of bed from a state of no pain to extreme pain as soon as I stood up. My wife could tell how bad the day was just by the look of my face. My crushed vertebra didn’t change that - it just extended the pain to the rest of the day. This morning when I stood up… Nothing. No sudden rush of agony. Normality. Or a normal I haven’t felt in many years.
Now, this was not a miracle cure. I found that I still had moderate pain that waxed and waned depending on how and what I was doing. And when I bent over to pick up something small from the floor - allowed by the instructions - I felt a lightning bolt of pain that was like what people describe from being stabbed in the back. But the surgery itself went very well. Kyphoplasty, remember, involved inserting a small balloon into the spine and injecting quick-setting cement to push apart the area pressing on the nerves. The surgeon said that he got a “good fill.” All my back shows is two small incisions on either side of the spine. I’m hoping that when my body gets over the the shock of an operation I’ll feel like I did in April, which wasn’t exactly great but let me drive and shop and go out to a show and quasi-regular life.
The rest is my personal experience, probably not applicable to others, but it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t have some weird complications to a very successful surgery. And even though I kept reading that the procedure was quick and easy, less than a half hour, I spent over nine hours in the hospital. In fact, one doctor wanted me to spend the night. My nurse said flatly that no beds were available unless for critical need and that a stay wasn’t going to happen. Not often you see a nurse overrule a doctor.
My arrival time was 8:15. I thought I might be home in time for lunch. I’ve been through many preps and that usually means about 45 minutes until I get wheeled in. Surprise number one. My start time was 11:10. Why I was never told. Surprise number two. I would be spending three hours in the operating room. Why? Because it takes time to prep and then as much time to unprep. Seriously? Why had no one ever mentioned this?
They rolled me in just before eleven. I was getting general anesthesia, which requires a breathing tube down the throat. I now sound like RFK Jr. At 12:23 - half the time I was told - I arrived in the Phase 1 recovery room. Hi, what’s your name, can you wiggle your toes, etc. My toes wiggled. My whole legs wiggled. I had no control over the wiggles; I could have been part of Riverdance. Except that they kept creeping upward until even my jaw was affected. Tremors apparently are possible after general anesthesia. I now sympathize with anyone who is inflicted with them; they’re horrifying. I was given a muscle relaxant, which made me very sleepy. Try falling asleep while preforming Riverdance. You can’t do it. Maybe Trump could. But the tremors gradually receded.
Instead of a short stay before going to Phase 2 recovery, the nice one, with a recliner instead of a gurney, and something to drink, and your spouse, I used up the rest of the three hour period. Six hours after admittance, looking forward to going home soon. But no. The nurse did all the basic readings, pulse, temperature, blood pressure, blood oxygen. My blood oxygen was 86, trending down. Normal is 95 or more out of 100. Anything below 80 can cause brain damage. I was at 77 before returning to the hospital after my bypass, which any of you smartasses can cite as proof. My brain was in fact foggy.
General anesthesia can collapse lungs, said the anesthesiologist. She put me on oxygen and gave me breathing exercises to do that would hopefully expand the lungs. IOW, after surgery to relieve a compression I now had a compression to relieve before I could go home. Hours passed. Nothing worked. They brought in an x-ray machine to see if the lungs were clear. They were. Finally, my nurse said I needed to walk before they would release me in any case and we were past due. We did a lap around the Phase 2 room. Bing. I felt better. My brain cleared. The nurse did another blood oxygen measurement. 82. She tried another finger just in case that was a bad read. 98. For all the medical knowledge and equipment in that room, all I really needed was to stand up and move. Of course, she did the measurement over and over and we took another walk around the room, but it was after five and they wanted me out only slightly less than I did.
And today started out wonderfully. I’m actually looking forward to tomorrow and not in a countdown to blastoff sort of way.