The Lint Screen

A year and a half earlier, I had had my right hip replaced. Same doctor, same procedure, same hospital. Back then, the post-op pressures I faced were related to bodily fluids:
1. Pee quickly, or get a catheter.
2. Produce red blood cells or get units of blood and extra hospital time for monitoring.

After my first hip replacement, I could do neither of these important tasks. The anesthesia apparently dries-up one’s urine flow, and my body was not about to bother with making some fresh red to replenish itself. Essentially my body was flipping me a big bird for hurting it (my body can be petty that way).

So, this go ‘round, I was determined to at least avoid the dreaded catheter. There wasn’t much I could do about giving my body a pep talk concerning the importance of rapid blood production. My body’s got a mind all its own.

So, I concentrated on ‘making water.’ No dice. Try as I may, and Lord knows I tried, I was dry. A drought of pee for me. The nurse even gave me overtime to see if I could score. Nothing.

I will not go into the details of receiving a catheter hook-up except to say it is probably an early initiation rite as one passes through the gates of hell. However, it was not as painful as my memory had portrayed it from last time (sometimes memory can be a drama queen). It was intense, yes, but it was over quickly, and once the deed is done, the issue is laid to rest as long as you’re tapped. My catheter was in for 48 hours.

A catheter is the ultimate lazy guy device. If getting one installed was not so painful, I imagine a catheter would be popular at football games, rock concerts and for long driving trips.
The other pressure, the blood production, well, I failed that also. I was apparently white as my hospital sheet on the second day. My hemoglobin count was low, about the same count one would find in a stick. The kind doctor ordered me two units of A+ blood. This vintage is one Count Dracula described as “Precocious and playful” while being “invigoratingly intriguing to the palate, with hints of currants, blackberries and earthy exuberance. A wonderful pick-me-up!”

Fluids were now going out, fluids were now coming in. I was on the road to recovery. All I had to do was serve my hospital time and survive physical therapy.

The last thing I remember was being wheeled into the operating room. I had been asked to answer the following questions on eight different occasions that morning in the hospital: What is your name, your birthdate, and what procedure are you having today?

My left hip and left foot were marked with a Sharpie Marker. All of this advanced technology was to alleviate mistakes, something like accidentally getting a lobotomy instead of a total hip replacement. Comforting, this modern medical science.

I remember the operating room being cold. I recall the operating table being metallic, cool and narrow. I remember someone saying something about... and I was out as the doc did his dirty deed for the next two hours, placed in the recovery area and monitored for an hour, and finally assigned my post-op home: room #405, Piedmont Hospital, Atlanta.

I awoke to numbness, a loving wife, my legs strapped to a foam wedge placed between my thighs (to keep my new ball joint at the proper angle, I guess), and a morphine drip. I was told that the operation was a success and my hip that had been replaced was “in bad shape.” Well, I could have told them that.

I was also told I could hit my morphine drip plunger every 8 minutes, if needed. I knew from past experience my brain is very good at calculating life in 8 minute intervals and issuing urgent commands to the right thumb to plunge away.

I was done. The nastiness was done. I had a 12-inch gash on my butt sealed with a row of 33 pretty surgical staples. Now came the really hard part– avoiding the catheter.