GENERALLY GENERAL

I know a General is an important leader, but the  word general in lower case seems much more bland and benign, so when they told me I was having it, I had no fear or even much respect  for General Anesthesia.  I was to be proven  wrong on that score.  When I had Cystoscopy Procedure No.1 last month, the anesthesiologist consulted with me about my apprehensions, and said he would make me comfortable and safe.  He was true to his word; I woke up feeling good, really good.  I can't explain the feeling, but it was a beautiful thing.  So much so, that I actually was kind of looking forward to it during this week's Cystoscopy Procedure No. 2 .
    So when, preparing to be sedated, I saw the anestheologist, a woman this time, and one highly recommended by the attending nurse, begin to place a mask over my face, I said that I didn't have that the last time.  I heard someone say, "Well, you are this time."   Of course, I calmly asked, "WHY???"   "Because," the nurse patiently (or so I had thought) explained, "This time you are having general anesthesia."  Another WHY THE DIFFERENCE?" from me brought her  explanation:   "The doctor may  possibly have to perform a laser lithotripsy, and with that type of surgery, he needs the patient to be completely paralyzed so there is no danger of even slight movement that could result in disaster from a tear or penetration  of  an organ."   When I heard the word, making certain, "Did you say PARALYZED????", I probably should have known there would be no beautifully sublime awakening this time. She continued, "And because you'll be paralyzed, that is why we're going to insert a breathing tube."  "OMG, I'm not going to be able to BREATHE!"    From  the moment I  saw the mask and heard the word paralyzed, and found out I wasn't going to be able to breathe,   I relinquished any thought of waking up to something beautiful, instead  hoping to wake up to anything at all, beautiful or not.  And it was not.
    At first,  I was attempting to assemble some semblance of sanity and presence by trying to put in order the pieces of an oppressive looking assemblage of open-fronted wooden cartons and crateboards, some wire-fronted, all of them brown with black bindings.  They were piled teeteringly   high and deep, perilously large and foreboding,  on  the left side of a decrepit looking warehouse-style building.  To keep them upright so that I could find my own way out, and secure the safety of many others, I had to arrange  them on pallets into columns and other configurations, and I had to do it in the style used to solve crossword puzzles.  I was having some success in a frantic kind of way, when I heard what must have been the last part of the kindly nurse's explanation: "You could really do some damage to yourself if, not paralyzed, you moved even only slightly at an opportune time and something was punctured."  I could only just barely respond, "An inopportune time."   I heard her repeat, "Yes, inopportune,"  
    I awoke to the panel of judges in the front of the recovery room.  Naturally there were 3 of them all sitting behind what looked like a judging desk.  None of them had any connection to me at the moment.  The urology surgeon was writing his copious notes, head down and diligently writing what would turn out to be the most complete medical report I'd ever seen.  The receptionist/secretary/department coordinator woman was dressed in black and conducting business.  (I heard her admire the shoes of a woman passing her desk.)  The third person was the comforting and compassionate nurse who had been caring for me pre-surgically. She was the most recent one to join the others at the desk, and presently was making a phone call. I heard part of her telephone conversation:  "I just spent the worst hour of my life."   I  had thought her  a friendly, optimistic person and wondered what hour that could have been.   As my head cleared,  a thought  came to me, but no, she couldn't have meant that, could she have?