Last night, we watched an episode of “House, MD” on DVD. We bought the entire series a while back and have been working our way through it. The episode was from the seventh season and titled “Bombshells.”

There was one scene, a patient (actually a main character) waking up from surgery, that brought to the surface something I had pushed way down inside and hadn’t given much thought to for some years now. It was the look on her face that did it. A dawning realization.

I sometimes wonder why I like this show as much as I do considering my fear of doctors and dislike of hospitals. But it is well written, well-acted, and the characters are interesting. And sometimes infuriating.

Doctors discuss the surgery and the physical recovery from the surgery with patients. And that’s generally as far as it goes. You don’t really think, beforehand, about the emotional fallout. Usually, you’re too busy dealing with the idea of being cut open to think about much else. At least it was that way for me.

When they put you to “sleep” before operating on you, you have no idea that when you wake up you will be a different person. That everything will be different.

When I first woke up, it didn’t feel real. Like maybe it happened to someone else. The problem, I think, is partly lost time and also partly the pain medication. There’s no link in time between pre-surgery you and post-surgery you. You’re unconscious in a way that is unlike anything else.

I don’t even remember losing consciousness. I remember everything leading up to it, but not that. It’s not like falling asleep where you sort of know that’s what’s happening. It’s not like sleep in another way that’s hard to describe. Sleep has been called the “little death” but sleep doesn’t hold a candle to drug induced unconsciousness in that regard.

One moment, you are there. Next moment, you are not.

How can you make sense of it?

But when I saw the staples running down the middle of my abdomen I said to myself, “They took out all of my spleen and half my pancreas.” But it still wasn’t real. It didn’t feel like I was talking about me. I hadn’t been “there” when it happened.

It didn’t become truly real until I was home again. In familiar surrounds. And I discovered I related to it all differently. I was different. I felt out of place. Like I didn’t fit. But I couldn’t put a finger on exactly why.

It was like I had been floating along, thinking everything was the same. But then the reality set in and I knew I was forever changed.

It happened not slowly and with gradual acceptance. But suddenly. From one conscious to unconscious moment. With no help in between.

At least for me the physical outcome was good. For some people, it is not.

As hard as it was for me to cope (and apparently I am still working on it), I wonder how those whose outcomes are less than good manage it.

There are probably counselors in all hospitals who could talk with you about this. But it was not offered to me. It was not mentioned. There were plenty of physical therapists and occupational therapists foisted on me. But no emotional therapists.

Why don’t they talk about this?

Images courtesy of Faticon and Pinterest, respectively.