On Loop

Maverick Cotsen

12/27/24

   On Loop

It was less than an hour after my surgery that I realized I would never be able to forgive my surgeon.

Merely a week prior, I had walked into my surgeon’s office to go over the final details leading up to the procedure: what to eat and drink beforehand, what to not do, and a reiteration of the risks in order to confirm that I really wanted the procedure. Ever since I had fallen off a rock swing and slammed my elbow into a rock, my right arm hadn’t been able to move or even bend, leading me to be effectively half as useful as I used to be. The choice to get a full reconstruction of my elbow was not an easy one; the way it had broken, there were far less invasive and safer procedures that were available to me. I was hesitant, but my surgeon took my hand, assured me that it was the best course of action, and said,

“It’s going to be OK.”. 

Three days before the procedure, my anxiety had only worsened, and my partner had done the best they could to comfort me. They told me that the risks were still low and that this procedure would return to me the full mobility I had before my life was turned upside down. Friends had reached out, comforting me and wishing me a speedy recovery, as if I had already gone through with the operation. It felt as if I had already been altered, physically and personally, by the procedure despite not even having the surgery yet. Even my dog knew something was off, as he wagged his tail and snuggled up next to me every night in my bed instead of sleeping in his dog bed like he always does. It felt like the natural rhythm of my life had been disrupted, and that nothing would ever feel the same way it did. I began to fantasize and romanticize my life before the accident, as if it had been the peak of existence. This, of course, glosses over the struggles I was having earlier that year to pay rent, repair my relationship with my parents, and help a friend through an accidental pregnancy. Through the storm of thoughts, I clutched desperately to the mast of the boat, repeating as the next big wave came to hit me,

“It’s going to be OK.”.

Two days before the procedure, the anxiety had not improved, and it was visible on my partner's face that they were clearly worried about me. My despondency when I was asked questions, my inattentiveness when attempting tasks with one arm, and even my lack of appetite were just a few of the worrying symptoms that were beginning to present themselves en masse. Behind my back, my partner was contacting my friends, trying to coordinate some kind of effort to boost my mood, all while I more or less lay in my bed all day, watching daytime television and periodically getting up to use the restroom. In between naps and TV fever dreams, I had flashbacks to all of the warnings from friends and family about the procedure. 

“Are you sure you want to do this? What if you never fully recover?”

“I don't know about this operation; isn't there a considerable chance they screw up and just have to amputate your arm?”

“I fully support you and your decision, but I want to make sure you’ve thought it through.”

These criticisms, at the time, seriously made me reconsider my decision. Ultimately, I decided to stay the course, but the decision to go against the better advice of my friends felt wrong even at the time. The weird and odd feeling of regret that washed over me every time I reassured them and told them I was going through with it only amplified the more people I talked to. Whenever I talked to anyone who knew me, the surgery would sooner or later come up, and I would have to wait during conversation until that dreaded moment came. My friends were with me, surgery or no, but the storm upon which my boat had been sailing only seemed to intensify, as big wave after big wave nearly broke my ship in two. Still clutching onto that mast of hope, as thoughts flowed freely in and out of my mind as I lay awake at midnight, 

“It’s going to be OK.”.

24 hours out from the procedure, my anxiety had completely paralyzed me. Even the most basic tasks, like brushing my teeth or going to the bathroom, felt like herculean tasks that required tremendous effort. I turned off my phone at that point in order to calm my nerves and had even sworn off television for the day. I just sat in my bed and read some of my favorite books, periodically taking breaks to stare out of the window. The surgery loomed like a dark cloud above my head, ready to reign over my head at any given moment and take full control of my consciousness. It dawned on me at that moment that this procedure, the one I had defended from friends and fought so hard to have, had largely come to define me as a person. At the very least, I had let it define me in many ways; reflecting on my thoughts at the time, I am now able to see how completely enveloped I had been. Irony, though cruel, for it seemed that despite the fact that my elbow was about to be repaired, a part of me had been damaged in the process. Sure, I was to be fixed physically, but mentally my anxiety and nervousness had never been higher. As I went to bed that night, the last thought I can remember is a gentle acceptance as the day of the surgery fast approached and a comforting line:

“It’s going to be OK.”. 

On the morning of the surgery, my surgery, I was woken by my partner early in the morning. They gave me my water bottle, my clothes, and opened the door for me to get into the passenger seat of our car at a bright and sunny 4 am. By the time I got to the hospital, all events began to blend together. The reception, the being shown to the bed, and the surgeon's explanation of the pre-operative all seemed like a free-flowing dream. The last memory I have right before going under anesthesia is of my partner holding my hand. Whispering in a soft, reassuring tone,

“It’s going to be OK.”. 

As I would soon find out, it was not going to be OK.

Based on the beginning of my story, you can guess how well my procedure went. Three hours into the reconstruction of my elbow, a complication caused internal bleeding all throughout my arm. With no ability to stop it, they ended up having to amputate my arm from the elbow down. Upon waking, I felt phantom pain almost immediately and would continue to feel that way for days after. 

My surgeon came into the room shortly after I awoke and tried consoling me.

“There was nothing I could have done. These things just happen sometimes. I’m sorry”. 

Did any of his words even matter? I had held his words dear for so long, and for them to ring hollow in my moment of utmost need was one of the most depressing situations I have ever been in. My partner, in between crying sessions, attempted to reassure me. I heard him begin to say,

“Don’t worry. No matter what, it’s going to b-”