this morning
It was an early morning.
We woke up at 4 to make sure Rico had time for a shower with his full anti-bacterial scrub. I'm not sure why that was necessary, seeing as no less than 12 people were maneuvering, shaving and doodling with Sharpie on his leg. It's not like they pulled that marker out of a jar of alchohol or anything, it was just laying around. I'm all for good intentions, but why bother showering not once - but twice, with anti-bacterial soap, if the pre-op room isn't even using the same sterilization procedures as a 1940's barber shop?
I don't know if we should be thrilled or freaked out about his surgeon. Everybody who works here says his name in hushed tones. When Rico's leg didn't get autographed properly, there was a whole lot of side eye, and people muttering, "My god he's gonna have that resident's head - it's gonna be a bad day." Apparently he's a big deal - supposedly the best in the country based on his surgies and inventions. I know nothing about this guy, but I do know that all the side-eye in the world won't stand up to my crappy review on Yelp! if he messes this up.
My two favorire people are Jim, the guy who made me a breakfast omelet, and added extra cheese because he said anybody up this early needs extra cheese, and Erik, the anesthesiology resident (and former Ole) who was the only person to look me straight in the eye and take personal responsibility, saying, "I'm gonna take great care of him." Nurse Jo gets a shout out for bringing us both warm blankets and hugs, and reminding me to go visit Jim the omelet guy.
So now we wait - and wait. First they remove the bad stuff, then they get out their light sabers or whatever it is they use to zap any remaining cells, then they go get some better skin from somewhere else and make a patch with it. It could be four hours - it could be eight.
Oh - and sweet baby Jesus - under the ever-watchful eye of her half-sleeping siblings, Yoda has somehow learned to post and comment on Instagram. I barely have cell service but when it did kick in I was served with a duck-faced selfie of my five-year old slathered in makeup she mined from our dance recital bag. Throw in a few shots of her pillow, some American Girl jewelry, heaven knows how many comments on random photos. I am sooooooo sorry.
We woke up at 4 to make sure Rico had time for a shower with his full anti-bacterial scrub. I'm not sure why that was necessary, seeing as no less than 12 people were maneuvering, shaving and doodling with Sharpie on his leg. It's not like they pulled that marker out of a jar of alchohol or anything, it was just laying around. I'm all for good intentions, but why bother showering not once - but twice, with anti-bacterial soap, if the pre-op room isn't even using the same sterilization procedures as a 1940's barber shop?
I don't know if we should be thrilled or freaked out about his surgeon. Everybody who works here says his name in hushed tones. When Rico's leg didn't get autographed properly, there was a whole lot of side eye, and people muttering, "My god he's gonna have that resident's head - it's gonna be a bad day." Apparently he's a big deal - supposedly the best in the country based on his surgies and inventions. I know nothing about this guy, but I do know that all the side-eye in the world won't stand up to my crappy review on Yelp! if he messes this up.
My two favorire people are Jim, the guy who made me a breakfast omelet, and added extra cheese because he said anybody up this early needs extra cheese, and Erik, the anesthesiology resident (and former Ole) who was the only person to look me straight in the eye and take personal responsibility, saying, "I'm gonna take great care of him." Nurse Jo gets a shout out for bringing us both warm blankets and hugs, and reminding me to go visit Jim the omelet guy.
So now we wait - and wait. First they remove the bad stuff, then they get out their light sabers or whatever it is they use to zap any remaining cells, then they go get some better skin from somewhere else and make a patch with it. It could be four hours - it could be eight.
Oh - and sweet baby Jesus - under the ever-watchful eye of her half-sleeping siblings, Yoda has somehow learned to post and comment on Instagram. I barely have cell service but when it did kick in I was served with a duck-faced selfie of my five-year old slathered in makeup she mined from our dance recital bag. Throw in a few shots of her pillow, some American Girl jewelry, heaven knows how many comments on random photos. I am sooooooo sorry.
Comments
Best to Rick and you and the family.