Sensory Detail Revision

Surgical Sensory Experiences

One of the most interesting experiences one can have is going into an operation and I

have endured that experience over 70 times. Many of these times occurred when I was very little

and do not remember, however probably 30 plus of them I was old enough to remember. The

entire process of surgery is exhausting, often starting very early in the day and not fully ending

until late afternoon/early evening, then you begin the healing process. This experience is full of

sensory details, with strange scenes, scents, feelings, and yes, even tastes, that have a profound

effect on the individual.

If one is lucky, their surgery happens early in the morning, with an arrival time of

between 5-7 and a start time between 7-9, which will lead to a very early rise. The options for

awakening can go from the ever-increasing screeching of an alarm or a soft knock and the voice

of a parent saying that it’s almost time to go (there’s no need to wake up any earlier because you

can’t eat breakfast and there’s no need to shower). After quickly brushing my teeth, it’s time to

go to the hospital. Historically, there are two ways to go, walking or driving. In the early 2000s,

my family lived in Phoenix and would fly to the east for procedures at Boston Children’s

Hospital. We often stayed in a hotel across the street from the hospital with a huge food court

below, needless to say, at 5:00 or earlier, none were open. I distinctly remember the consistent

near-dead silence, as the only noise was the clack of our shoes clicking the floor and the

occasional janitor walking by as we made our way across the street for check-in. It’s a unique

experience to make this walk, there is a natural yearning for more sleep, yet the anxiety of being

so close to the answers and/or result produced by a procedure does not allow us to fully

acknowledge how tired we truly are.

As our Phoenix-based family steps out into the Boston breeze, all sense of exhaustion is

wiped away and replaced by growing anxiety, as a bustling city just getting on its way to work,

and a brightly lit hospital is glaring down upon us. We take the brisk walk across the street to the

hospital and see it’s fluorescent lights glaring down on us. As we walk through the revolving

doors, a flurry of new sensory elements flow through. I hear the entertainment machines placed

int lobby ringing and can smell the coffee coming from the Au Bon Pain Cafeteria. It’s hard

because while you can almost imagine the taste of the cinnamon rolls and coffee being cooked

inside, you can’t eat or drink anything. It’s just a struggle to get through the lobby and into the

elevator. The calm before the relative storm has ended.

I have been there 70 times and that alone makes pre-op the weirdest place I have ever

been. Everything after check-in for me is always a blur, but the same steps are always the same,

I’ll say goodbye to whoever has come with me, outside of my parents, and the three of us will

leave the glass waiting room where many other patients are still waiting and depart behind the

doorways into pre-op. After my family and I head back, we begin in a regular doctor’s room, no

different from one someone would get a checkup in with a bright fluorescent light shining down

and maybe a few more monitors, I can hear the rustling of the stupid paper on the bed as I make

my way up there, my leg tears it some, but it’s fine. We review my allergies, weight, and height,

as well as make sure that my vitals are good to go. Next, I meet the anesthesiologist who will be

working with me that day. His eyes widen as I explain to him my complex history and how I

know what works and what doesn’t medicine wise. After a quick review of all this is time for the

next stop, which is pre-op.

I am told to get ready for the operation and lay on the bed, after the hordes of nurses,

anesthesiologists, and doctors start coming in. It’s not intimidating, but certainly, a tad

overwhelming as questions are asked and everyone is checking to ensure that all parties are

aware of what is scheduled to happen during the operation. As I lay back and answer the

questions, I can’t help but get a little tired, I’ll soon be asleep I think to myself, as I look to my

parents, who will get no such nap. My doctor walks in right before it’s time to go and says hello

to everybody, we have a light conversation (the same one I’ve had with everyone else). I ask a

question, he answers, smiles, and says “see you in there”. As I hear him say it, I know he says it

literally because I surely will not see him, as doctors are usually washing up when the patient is

first brought into the OR. Just as the door closes, it opens again, this time it’s the anesthesiologist

from the checkup room with the IV. After 70 surgeries, some under more stressful situations than

others, I have developed some anxiety about the mask and surgeries in general, so a small

sedative is used to ensure I am calm. I hear the beeping and voices around me, as they prepare to

move me into the next room and feel my brain gets fuzzy as the medicine flows from IV into my

arm. I lean back as the smell of the sterile wipes, alcohol, and what I believe but cannot confirm

to be the medicine itself floods my nostrils. There’s a taste as well that is almost indescribable

that occurs as well once the medicine is in. I honestly cannot recall it exactly. I feel the cold

metal bars go up as they brush by my arm and tell my parents goodbye as the nurses start to

move me down the hall.

The trip is quick and fun, as everyone jokes around, Dilaudid will have that effect on a

person. The big double doors open and there are bright lights everywhere, as is the

anesthesiologist from before. I can once again smell just a general sense of sterilization, ORs are

one of the cleanest rooms in a hospital. The air is cool because the keep the temperature down for

the doctors, I am given a fuzzy blanket as they bring me from one bed to the other. The

anesthesiologist prepares to put the mask on, but I ask to hold it instead, he disagrees, and we