One good thing about Shabbat ending at 8:30 and you’re going to be picked up at 8:45 for the ride to the hospital; you don’t have much time to dwell upon all the things that could go wrong while they are supposedly making you better.

I’m here! Barbara came with me up to the nurses station on the 5^th floor of the Davidson Pavilion, leaving Bernice waiting in the car down below. I didn’t expect a royal welcome when I arrived, and I didn’t get one. Just another patient showing up as scheduled. They had a room waiting for me, #1, meaning I would be right by the entrance, able to hear the sounds of anyone and everyone coming and going. At least it was a private room; that’s good! However they had somehow run out of blankets and pillows, and the towel hanging in the bathroom had clearly been left over from the previous occupant. Let that sink in, this being Hadassah Hospital-Ein Kerem, not Motel 6, where they leave the light on for you. If I could wait until the following morning when they would receive a fresh supply… One of the women on duty took pity on me and rummaged through the entire floor, finally finding a blanket that was not in use. I crumpled some extra clothing we had packed and that became a make-shift pillow. I’ll use the towel that’s there; beggars can’t be choosers. I bid Barbara good night and she and Bernice headed back to the friendly confines of Ma’ale Adumim, where fresh laundry was not an issue, leaving me alone, waiting for my surgery the next morning.

At least I knew when they were supposed to operate on me. When we were in Sofia’s office during ishpuz several days before, I noticed a list on her desk of who was scheduled for surgery Sun. morning, listing age, specific procedure, and what time. This list probably should have been private and confidential, but there it was right on her desk. Of course I took a peek. Why wouldn’t I?  I’m #4, scheduled for 8:20AM.

I wasn’t foolish enough to expect that’s when my procedure would take place. Hospitals don’t run like clock-work – in case you haven’t noticed. But still, I was #4. Probably nobody else was going to cut the line and get in ahead of me. I could at least call Barbara and keep her in the loop. It’s 9:30 and they’re getting ready to put me on a gurney and take me down. By this time, I had swapped my pajamas for a hospital gown and stowed away my glasses and cell phone. I’m now off the grid. Don’t expect any further communication from me! They’ll call you and let you know when I’m in recovery.

Anybody remember this scene from one of the Godfather movies in which the guy is trying to impress his girlfriend and he takes her to this fancy Mafia restaurant. There’s a line of people waiting their turn to get in, so he takes her to a back entrance and they go down a long hallway past the kitchen until they make it into the dining area where there’s a table waiting for them. In my case, the gurney ‘driver’ pushed me out the door of the ward, down a corridor to some back bank of elevators, down to the sub-basement, through a maze of corridors, until we arrived in what I assumed was a waiting area. Good thing he knows the way!

And there I waited for another hour, although I can’t remember how I knew the time. Finally, I was wheeled into a room where the anesthesiologists were waiting for me. They put this thing over my mouth and… I woke up in the twinkling of an eye, except it was hours later. Barbara was there in the recovery room. I’m told I said something to her and then went back to sleep. At some point I was back in my room, and Barbara was kind enough to head down to Roladin and bring me back some coffee and a sandwich.

I made it, that’s the main thing! I survived the procedure, which is what I was afraid wouldn’t happen. And I wasn’t in any pain. (Had they given me any pain killers? I have no idea.)

What was it like, after all these months not having a catheter? Talk about jumping the gun. Not only did I still have a catheter, with two huge bags that lay on the floor, I also had two intravenous drip bags on a rack that could be wheeled around, meaning that I was more tubed up and dependent on others than I had been before.

Wait a minute; I thought the purpose of the procedure was that you wouldn’t need a catheter. As I said, you’re jumping the gun. Just hold your horses, and I’ll explain. Did you ever clean out your electric shaver or your vacuum cleaner, removing all the hair or the dirt? Dr. Lorber has just whittled down my prostate with a laser, leaving all this stuff inside that needs to come out. And you can’t just do it the way you would with an appliance. The catheter is there so that large quantities of liquid can go through my system and take out all the gunk that remains from the procedure, and flush it out, which would take a day or two.

It’s lonely being in a hospital at night. Family and friends have long gone. The night shift goes on duty at 11PM, and it’s not ‘Don’t call us; we’ll call you.’ You are doing the calling – as in, press the button hanging on the side of your hospital bed – and you hope someone will decide to show up. The two bags with the saline solution, they are not dripping. Is that on purpose? How full do the two bags on the floor have to be before they need to be changed? Having nothing better to do with my time, I could pay attention to the various techniques different nurses used to deal with the bags with the bloody urine. One way was to throw out the used bags and connect new ones. A second was to pour the contents of the bags into another bag and continue using the originals. One enterprising nurse poured the contents of the used bag into a chamber pot and emptied that. However it was done, it was left to me to keep track of when the two bags on the floor needed to be emptied, meaning I wasn’t going to get a restful night’s sleep. I could just as well be at home with Pooms howling in my ear. As they say, no rest for the weary. It could only get better. At least by this time I had my very own pillow. Even a clean towel.