Road Apples by Tim Sanders
May 23, 2011
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Surgeries and their unintended consequences Several years ago I went into the medical field. Which is to say I didn’t become a doctor or a dentist or a lab technician; I became a diabetic. If you are determined to refer to medicine as a “field,” then I was simply a perennial weed in that field, appearing in doctors’ offices every few years to be pruned, and then reappearing when things started to sprout again. Over the past 53 years as a type 1 diabetic I’ve developed all of the complications associated with the disease, and even invented a few new ones (I am medically incapable of learning German or appreciating opera). Over the years I’ve had several operations; some to remove organs, others to add new ones. Medical professionals have removed my left eyeball from its socket, sucked the vitreous fluid out of it, re-inflated it and put it back where it belonged. They’ve taken my heart out of my chest, passed it around the operating room as a kind of show-and-tell session for the interns, and then added new plumbing to the thing and put it back. They’ve removed my sternum, and later gone back into my chest to insert a new aortic valve. I’ve had many other interesting medical procedures performed on my person, all of which required anesthesia. I say all of this to establish my credentials as someone who knows, or at least thought he knew, all of the dangers associated with surgery and anesthesia. Time after time my doctors have told me what to expect after surgery, and they’ve always been right on target. (I was told, however, that when I first went on anti-rejection drugs for my newly transplanted kidney, I would possibly have hallucinations. I was looking forward to seeing giant spiders on the hospital room wall or hearing bobcats fighting under the bed, but there was nothing. I do remember what appeared to be a spooky, talking tent at the foot of my bed as I came out of the anesthesia, but it turned out to be only my mother-in-law, sitting behind a pile of blankets.) But here are some recent news reports of post-surgical events which most medical authorities would never have predicted: • On April 30, 2011, Oregon’s NWCN King 5 News reported the story of a Newport, Oregon woman who underwent oral surgery in 2009. After her surgery Karen Butler had the pain and swelling that the oral surgeon had predicted. She also had a British accent, which surprised everyone, including herself. The 56-year-old native Oregonian is apparently suffering from something called (seriously) Foreign Accent Syndrome. This is a bona fide medical condition which has occurred more than 60 times over the past century, and can be triggered by migraine headaches, traumatic head injuries, strokes, and reaction to certain kinds of anesthesia. I read a couple of articles about Foreign Accent Syndrome, and learned that some people acquire British accents, some Norwegian accents, and others Russian, Chinese or German accents. These people do not miraculously find themselves speaking actual Russian, Chinese, or German languages, but they do wind up annoying everyone who knows them with their new accents. I listened to a recording of Mrs. Butler before and after her accent transformation, and could certainly understand how her friends and relatives might want to provide her with some low cost medical remedy like, for example, duct tape. The last time I underwent oral surgery I had gas. By which I mean the dentist gave me nitrous oxide, which cheers patients up and makes them laugh at really stupid dental jokes, unlike methane, which only makes patients morose and sullen. I do know that nitrous oxide may also reduce pain, enhance the output of your internal combustion engine, and serve as an aerosol propellant for whipped cream canisters. I don’t know if the dentist sedated Mrs. Butler with an IV, or if she had gas during her surgery, but somebody may need to look into that. And if post-surgical accents weren’t bad enough, what follows is possibly everyone’s very worst post-surgical nightmare: • There is a headline in the May 12 UK Metro Web Reporter which should send shivers down your spine all the way to your ... well, your next hospital visit: Blind man confused over ‘mystery enema’ Veteran police officers have been dumbfounded after a partially sighted man claimed a woman entered his apartment, gave him an enema, and promptly left. The 53-year-old California man answered the door to a woman who claimed she was there to give him an enema. As the man had recently undergone intestinal surgery, he assumed the visit was part of his rehabilitation and allowed the woman into his home to perform the procedure. The woman ... [performed] the enema in less than two minutes. A day later, the man began wondering about his experience and contacted the Sonoma Police Department to report the incident. The investigating officer contacted the man’s doctor and was told that an enema had not been prescribed, ordered, or approved. Due to the condition of the man’s eyesight, he was unable to offer police a description of the mystery woman and she left no clues of her identity at the scene. Sonoma police have now turned the case over to the domestic and sexual assault unit of the Sonoma Sheriff’s Office, who have yet to make sense of the incident. My parents believed in the old adage, “When all else fails, try an enema.” They considered the enema a cure for everything from constipation to measles to sprained ankles. If I’d stepped on the garden rake back then, whacked myself in the head, and hollered “BLIMEY, MATE, I’VE GOT THE BLOODY FOREIGN ACCENT SYNDROME!” they’d have sprinted off to find the good old enema bag. They did this mainly because, unlike other remedies, the enema didn’t cost anything. Unless you count dignity. As a child, whenever I heard the word “enema,” or caught sight of that nasty red bag and nozzle, I left the house. Had I been trapped in my second-story bedroom, I’d have bailed out the window. My eyesight isn’t all that good today, but I think I could still find the bedroom window if a mystery enema woman appeared at the door. |