Uncompromising Kindness or Lack Thereof: How I Ruined One of My Surgeries and What We Can Learn (1)

I am unsure where to start in this story. I think I will start with how this story ends: I compromised my surgery because I had an unrelenting desire to deny my body its truth.

When I was in 10th grade, my neurotologist (a fancier and more specialized otolaryngologist) sat down with my mom and me to discuss a new surgery. This new surgery would address the root of my hearing deficiency. Because one of the smallest bones in my body located in the middle ear was congenitally deformed (which is our prediction - still unsure what bone it is), the system of the malleus-incus-stapes was not working. My doctor suggested that through this new surgery, he could implant a titanium prosthesis that would restore hearing for me.

As one could imagine, I along with my mom fell in love with this plan. The solution to a problem standing for more than a decade was supposedly coming to end. Today, I do not characterize my disability as a problem. However, at the time, I did not know I had a disability. I saw my body like a broken car, with my doctor as the mechanic, and a solution waiting in the wing.

I readily approved the surgery to take place, but before the surgery could take place, we would need to find a date. When I was in high school, playing the bassoon was my everything. I practiced for orchestra and band rehearsals. I was in groups for solo and ensemble. I spent months preparing for 5 agonizing minutes to play a solo piece. That year, the District Solo & Ensemble was to be held right after the winter break ended, meaning I would need to have perfectly selected my surgery date. Because the bassoon is a woodwind instrument and requires a complex set of muscles to be in harmony with a pressure apparatus (in my mouth cavity), I would have to wait two or so weeks after my surgery before I practiced again.

To line up with rehearsal schedules, I decided the week before winter break would be optimal for my surgery. I choose an early morning time on Tuesday.

By the time Wednesday arrived, everything would go wrong.

The surgery went extremely well. My parents captured an emotional version of me coming up from anesthesia, which I featured on twitter, but is now locked away in my memory bank. I was in tears. I remember waking up from the surgery, hearing an overhead beeping sound. I had never been able to hear the sound so crisp. I could feel the echoes and reverberation of the sound bounce off of the hollow walls of the outpatient unit. I was struck with a paralyzing amount of joy. These were the noises that once were unknown to my soundscape. I held tightly onto that sound and it is one of the only sounds I can remember distinctly.

After regaining my composure, we were moved into a private room so I could prepare myself physically to leave. What I did not realize at the time was that I had no mental preparation to leave or even understand what just happened. I asked for some cold water and tasty saltine crackers. I consumed them quickly as my appetite had grown amuck in preparation for the surgery.

Typically, when I gain consciousness from surgery, I am at first very emotional and then become like a fashion-head at fashion week, checking off what I am taking home and the medications to take, then writing notes down from the nurse, and being very pointed in my language to others. I apologize to those who have seen me in this state. I am a complete bitch.

One additional challenge for the process of leaving was putting my clothes on. Encasing my ear was a large white dome, almost like the one I wore for wrestling back in the day. It would protect the healing ear from the elements of the outside world. Or, in other words, make sure the patient (aka me) doesn’t ram their ear into someone. There is something very grotesque to that image, and am grateful for the medical personnel who created this tool to prevent that. I managed to convince my parents that I was capable of putting my own clothes on despite this obvious physical barrier. Of course, when it came to the point to put my shirt on, my mom could hear my little whimpering behind the curtain and sprung into action.

Finally, I was clothed and ready to depart the hospital.

I took the doctor’s order that day. When I arrived home, I rested in my bed. I drank plenty of fluids, which meant for me a good helping of water. I did not pick up anything and always asked for help when climbing the stairs.

However, I felt worthless in bed.

Before reading The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown, I had been cultivating my self-worth through productivity, mostly with school and extracurricular activities. As someone bound to go to college, I was dead-set on doing the most to get where I needed to be in terms of top-notch schools. In doing so, my brain and body learned that rest was an infection of laziness that left untreated would lead to a chronic life of unhappiness. Even as I reflect on these moments, I wish I had the opportunity to tell my younger self that everything would work out in the end.

Without that luxury, however, I began to convince my mom that my return to school the next day would be absolutely necessary. I was unwilling to compromise. My mom suggested staying close enough to doctor’s orders that I could go back partway through the day. I would be missing the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd hour, but I was willing to bite my tongue as my mom was the one wielding the ability to drive over my head.

In all honesty, I never thought this would be a problem. I had to be at school in order not to miss pertinent course material. There would be tests, quizzes, and essays that I would need to reschedule and I couldn’t waste time falling behind. Hence, I forged a plan. I wouldn’t wear a backpack to reduce the risk of bearing too much weight. I coordinated with friends to have someone carry my bag from class to class. I brought an industrial pair of noise-canceling headphones to block out the loud noise of the school.

Yes, I did all of these things because my desire to go back to school was more pressing than that of my own health.

It’s a sad truth to admit.