Drowning In The Middle

The man lay in rest

among others of his kind

breath stolen away.

Awakening slowly, flat on my back and unmoving, my body lying in an ultra-firm, postoperative ward bed. I swear those beds are designed to motivate me to get out of post-op as quickly as possible. Not that I ever needed the motivation.

My brain barely functioning; the anesthesia had worn off just enough that I was beginning to become aware of my surroundings. Through my eyelids, a dull white light and shifting shadows nibble at the edges.

Mentally, I was groggy, and my eyelids felt anchored as if glued shut. The effort to open them was too much in my drugged state, so I did not fight it, keeping them closed for now. The soft light of the post-op ward leaked through, assuring me I was awake. My first thought was, "Good, I'm not dead."

This was my second surgery, and the growing familiar feeling of coming out of anesthesia was comforting as if I had awakened out of a deep dream-filled yet restful sleep—a sleep so deep, it was slightly disorienting at first. I started to stretch my body when I realized I could not breathe.

My chest felt heavy, as if someone were sitting on it, compressing my lungs. Gasping reflexively, my lungs sloshed. I could not inhale or exhale. My stretch was short-lived, as the drugs were keeping me relatively immobile. As the reality of my inability to breathe hit me, my consciousness raced upward in a panic. My face, nose, and, for some odd reason, my ears began to burn as the oxygen deprivation hit. My heart thudded in my chest like a newborn colt, pumping blood and badly needed oxygen into my brain.

I flexed my fingers into a weak fist in a panic. I could hear someone in the room with me. They were mumbling something about another patient, voice indistinct as This person had to be my post-op nurse.

I needed to get their attention. Forcing my hands to move, my left hand touched the bed railing. I tried knocking a fist against the bar. Once, twice, then a third time. The voice kept speaking in low tones. Across the room from me, I could hear the voice move from what I assumed was one bed to another.

I needed to try something else and quick. My left fist unclenched, fingers sliding slowly onto the bar, I curled my fingers around it on the one side of the bed. Gripping it as tightly as I could. Unclenching my jaw and opening my mouth, I tried to speak, to make a sound. My throat felt full, blocked by something, maybe a breathing tube?

In my weakened state, I clenched my stomach muscles as much as possible, using my diaphragm to force my lungs to function. My first surgery was an exploratory abdominal procedure. The incision cutting across and through my abdominal muscles, while six weeks old, had not fully healed yet. The pain was enormous, even through the pain medications.

My abdominal muscles had been severed only a few weeks before, and while healing had begun, the muscles struggled to cooperate. I clenched through the pain, trying to force my lungs to do something, anything. My diaphragm spasmed slightly. My lungs burned, but did not respond.

I concentrated again, energy waning. I focused on what little power I had left in my diaphragm, a more muscular spasm pushing against my lungs this time. I felt movement and a liquid began seeping out my nose and mouth.

It was then I realized a horrifying fact:

I was drowning,

drowning in

post-op.