I can say I survived bilateral carpal tunnel surgery. Even though my fingers remain numb.
While the event itself and days leading up to it left a lot for me to unpack (not physically, just mentally and emotionally), I can safely say I didn’t do it alone the way I felt I would have to.
The only other surgery I’ve had was some fifteen odd years ago - a tonsillectomy and adenoid removal in attempts to stop the snore filled sleep apnea I was experiencing. (I don’t even really know that this fixed things but here we are) I recalled this taking place when I was in the 8th grade, which would mean sometime around 2008, a few years fresh into my parent’s separation where they were not quite divorced. This came to mind after I’d thought about how I had both parents with me then and neither one of them with me a week ago (spoiler alert: one is dead and the other lives roughly 15 hours away). I cried and let myself be riddled with anxiety as I waited to go back to the operating room at Children’s then. No anxiety medication to lift me up, just my parents. At the time, my dad was pursuing his master’s degree in nursing and waited with my mom and I, Anatomy & Physiology textbook in hand. He attempted to placate my worries by handing the textbook to me, telling me to read as a distraction. My mom sat on the other end of the room, equipped with embraces and a calm voice whenever my tears came back.
A week ago, I was half sitting, half lying on a gurney. Just me, and my nurse. My brother was told to wait in the waiting area before I even began prepping for surgery, and I felt my heart sink. No mom. No dad. In fact, the last time my brother and I had been in a hospital (read: hospital, not children’s hospital. I’d argue they’re different) we had watched our mom take her last breath. I did everything I could do to keep calm. I followed directions from the nurses. I changed into a gown and hospital socks. But it didn’t take long for my heart to sink deeper as my brain filled with worry after worry and the wish that my mom was there. In one moment, I was told the IV for sedation would need to go in my foot or my leg - causing me to remember a night in the emergency room with my brother as they attempted an IV in his foot. Another moment, a tall man that introduced himself as my anesthesiologist, questioned me over a mitochondrial disease I have and know as much about as he does. All I could tell him was that my mom had it, and died not too long ago from it. Naturally this discussion brought on the waterworks. Then came the IVs, in both arms. Thank God they’re not going near my feet or legs, I thought, followed by the sudden fear that oh yeah, I still have to have IVs. The first arm was stuck, it stung, and I cried. Next was the remaining arm, it stung, and I cried some more. But that part was over, even though I couldn’t collect myself after. I took some deep breaths as the heart monitor that hugged my right pointer finger sang off and on, as if we didn’t already know my nerves were shot. My nurse stood at the computer, reading through my chart and asking more questions. Every so often she’d turn back at me when the heart monitor sang, chiming in with Natalie, take a deep breath. Or, Natalie, breathe. The worries and anxiety I’d had the days, weeks leading up to this were all crashing down. My fear of hospitals. My fear of doctors. My fear of surgery. They’re going to cut my hands. What if they mess it up? It’s just me and this stranger in my room. When can my brother come back? The nurse continued glancing through my chart as I continued to remember how to inhale and exhale. Out of the corner of my eye, on my right side and attached to the ceiling was a TV. Nothing fancy, and nothing playing from it. But suddenly my mind plays a flashback to my mom’s first stroke - when we sat in a similar room, her on the bed and I was seated to her left, and a very similar TV in a very similar position played SpongeBob. If I wasn’t crying before, I am now. The sniffling increased with not a dry spot in sight on my face. My nurse turned again, asking me what was wrong. My reply, I’m scared. Maybe my mom knew, somehow, some way, because the nurse barely stepped out of the room on a mission to grab my brother but there he was. Another nurse was on the way to bring him back, and my nurse re-traced her steps into the room. Relief somehow washed over me as I knew I was guaranteed a laugh before anything, and I was guaranteed my brother would understand. The nurse prepared doses of Versed in hopes to calm me down as my brother asked what was wrong. I repeated, I’m scared. As I expected, he understood. I followed up with some guilt in my throat and told him, I’m sorry for bringing this up but I miss mom. Again, he understood. The time spent chatting with my brother, being pumped with Versed, and waiting on my surgeon felt as though it took seconds. I remember feeling another weight come down as I spotted my surgeon and realized it was a matter of time. I remember being wheeled into the operating room and while my glasses weren’t on my face, it was like any other operating room I’d seen on Grey’s Anatomy. Since my mom’s death, I haven’t been able to watch that show, and lying on the gurney in the operating room only nailed in the reason(s) why. I don’t remember word for word but I do remember continuing to feel scared, and letting those around me know. I remember asking for my brother too as he was no longer in sight.
Clearly, I made it out the other side. I woke up in recovery, no recollection of the procedure itself (Thank God!) My brother was brought back again and the same wave of relief from before returned. In no time I was wheeled to my brother’s car and on my way home.
After that was said and done, I found myself feeling grateful for my brother. I came to the realization later why it all could’ve been so difficult, maybe even emotional for him, as I suddenly realized what happened the last time he was in a hospital. We traveled back to my place as I was ready to set up a nest in my living room, when I was met with a small bouquet of flowers, a tupperware tray containing dog treats and a toy, and a small tupperware bowl with pot roast in my fridge. I didn’t know if it was the Versed wearing off or that same wave of relief that I was no longer in a hospital, but my mood only elevated as I felt my heart brimming with love. The gratitude for my brother expanded and extended to my neighbors who had left the goodies and been over to help with my dog while I was gone. The deeds of love and care didn’t stop there as I was met throughout the week with continued help in walking my dog, removing medical tape from my arms, taking trash to the dumpster on our street, and re-wrapping my hands before my appointment tomorrow. Later in the evening, my brother and I trekked back to the pharmacy to pick up my pain medication. As we opened my apartment door to get in the car, we discovered a pink box from Crumbl Cookies sitting at my doorstep. A time stamp of 3:45pm below the message: Natalie, We hope everything went well and we can’t wait to see you again! Love, your gym crew. Cue the gratitude. Cue the love. I sat in my brother’s car as he drove to the pharmacy, sitting in shock, disbelief. The conversations I’d had with my therapist, my psych NP, the tears I spilled over and over because I felt my support system didn’t exist which couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s a feeling I’ve felt all along, and one only exacerbated by grief. If I had a flat tire? Mom was there. If I was short a few bucks on bills? Mom was there (even when she was hanging onto her last dollar) If I needed a hug? Mom was there. If I needed to cry? Mom was there. Time and time again she held my hand during labs. She’d offer company to a Bob Evan’s breakfast after because she knew I had to fast much like she did. I can’t remember why but one time, I had a meltdown in my car as I sat in a parking lot at McDonald’s. Who was there? My mom. Of course it isn’t fair to sit this responsibility on her, on one person. Even when she’d take the responsibility proudly (I can hear her say, It’s my job to worry about you). Lord knows the tables turned and I quickly became her support system. But now she’s gone.
However, though I feel like my support system is gone, that it went with my mom when she passed, I’ve clearly found this isn’t the case. In fact, call it divine intervention, but I can’t help but feel as though the support system I have today is my mom’s doing.