The anesthesiologist was putting the Michael Jackson drug in my IV when my doctor gave the surprise instruction. No one likes those in this setting. He wanted me to roll onto my side. I prefer to be in a seated position when unconscious around strangers because my butt feels safer, but I did what he said because I think he’s generally a nice guy.
The plastic ring was inserted into my mouth and strapped around my head to hold it in place. This made me unhappy. It also made it physically impossible to report said unhappiness. They must have known I was about to yank it off and call everyone’s integrity into question because that’s the last thing I remember.
I woke up in the recovery room groggy but relieved they knocked me out before I made a scene. Sometimes I do that. In my defense, it typically only happens when I fear bank accounts or orifices could be violated without my knowledge. Neither was really a possibility here, so it’s good that I was quiet and respectful, also known as asleep.
When I was fully alert again the doctor came in to report the test came back fine – hooray!
I got the nurse’s report when my dude was escorting me out of the building: the instant I came back to life and had nothing blocking my speech, I hardly drew a breath before my big anesthesia-induced unfiltered mouth launched into a southern tizzy about how I didn’t appreciate them putting that thing in my mouth and knocking me out – especially being a girl – that’s precisely when you want to be awake – particularly with the shape and size of said plastic thingy and bla bla bla rant rant rant. And then I nodded out again.
Apparently waking up in the recovery room was the second time I woke up.
I sure can’t wait to see all of them again tomorrow morning at 11:30am for the second procedure.
Same doctor, same crew, same shame.