This One's Gonna be Tough

by David Goldman

So, it has been two days since my minor surgery and I’m doing fine. My arm’s a little sore but not too bad. Yesterday at dialysis, all the dialysis nurses and techs were saying how beautiful my fistula was . To each, their own I guess. To me, it looks like a gigantic worm crawled just beneath the surface of my skin inside of my right elbow. On a disgusting scale of one to ten, I’d personally give it a six, maybe a seven. To be honest, if I was eating in a restaurant and someone came and sat across from me and had a scar that looked like this, I’d stop eating. Then again, I can’t even stomach it when I’m eating and someone is blowing their nose nearby.

Overall though, everything went very smoothly. There are always a few dos and don’ts and caveats they tell you about after the procedure because they don’t want to scare you too much beforehand. For example, when I had my pancreas transplant I found out two hours before the surgery that I was going to need a Foley catheter inserted up Lil’ Davey and kept there for three weeks after I got home. When I asked why nobody told me about this earlier, the nurse said, “Because you would have been dwelling on it for the entire time you were waiting, and when it came right down to it, you wouldn’t refuse the transplant because of it, right?” She was right. All I would have thought of was that damned hose sticking out of me, and while I dreaded the thought, it wouldn’t be enough for me to turn down the opportunity to no longer be a diabetic.

So I’ve learned that doctors and nurses strategically leave out certain key bits of information before surgery. I’m sure if you’d think to ask them a specific question they’d answer it honestly. On the other hand, they must not believe that lying by omission is actually lying. Ever since my pancreas transplant though, I have asked if a Foley catheter will be involved no matter what I’m going in for. You’d be surprised how often they enter the arena, so to speak.

This was a minor surgery though and I assumed any strategically omitted information would also be minor. And I was right. After surgery they told me a few things that I had to watch out for or could no longer do. I have to check my pulse in the fistula twice a day. Not really a big deal. I also can’t ever have blood drawn from the arm with the fistula. Again, I just have to remember it. It doesn’t seem like it will inconvenience me in any way. Another rule is that I can no longer sleep on my right side. It’s my right arm that has the fistula. This is a bit of a bummer because I do often sleep on that side. Oh well, I’ll manage to live without the comfort of that position.

Then, they hit me with a right hook that I never saw coming. “Oh, and you can no longer wear your watch on that arm.”

            “WHAT?! You’re kidding me right?” I asked in stunned disbelief.

            “No, you can’t take the chance that the watch will slide up your arm and constrict the blood flow,” I was told.

            “And how long does this last for?” I asked, although I was afraid I knew what was coming.

            “Well … forever,” was the brutally cold response.

This may not seem like a big deal to you upon first hearing it, but trust me. It’s a big deal! Forgive me if I offend you, but the closest analogy I can draw to this is being told that you have to wipe your butt with the opposite hand for the rest of your life. It’s completely unnatural! You’ve spent your entire life doing certain things, certain ways until they become little software programs that your mind runs automatically. They’re almost like breathing. You don’t even think about them. Wearing a watch on a particular hand is one of these behaviors. From the way you clasp or cinch it to your wrist, to the way it doesn’t even feel like you’re wearing it. There is the finely tuned synchronization of eyes and wrist melding into a mini-ballet of subtle, graceful movement when you look to check the time. It’s a dance I’ve done to a particular rhythm my entire life, and now I have to learn to do it all backwards?

I tried finding a  an error in their logic. Anything so I could continue wearing my watch the way I always have. But, it was to no avail. I told them I would trade them wearing a Foley catheter for a month if they would just let me wear my watch on my right arm. “No,” was all they said as they pried it from my wrist. I was defeated.

It’s been just over three full days now that I’ve been wearing my watch on the left arm. The whole situation is just wrong. Whereas I never felt the watch on my right arm, it now feels like a 20 lb. weight hanging from my wrist. Trying to read the time is something I now have to think out in advance – turn your head to the left, look down while bringing your left wrist up and slightly twist the wrist towards you. It never works. My eyes either get there too early or too late and when my arm comes up, the face of the watch has somehow twisted to the side of my wrist facing away from me. Putting it on and taking it off are like watching moments from the Theater of the Absurd. Everything about it is foreign and clumsy.

I’ve been told not to use a watch if I find it so awkward. “Young people don’t use them anymore.” I know. I’ve seen the trend over recent years that has those under 30 using their cell phones as timepieces. I thought about it, but I hate the thought of digging into my pocket, pulling out the phone, and pressing the button, just to see the time. Yes, I’m probably being overly dramatic, but it’s tough having to replace a small piece of my lifestyle that worked like, well… clockwork.

Maybe I can start the comeback of the pocket watch.