True story.
In 2015, in the early part of the year, I pulled something in the right side of my abdomen. It wasn’t especially painful but it was definitely inconvenient. After six months with no improvement, I decided to have it checked out. The doctor took one look and said, “Oh, yes, you have a hernia!” Surgery was scheduled almost immediately.
I’ve been under general anesthesia more than once -- and I always hate coming out of it. Others might tell you that they feel like they’ve just had a wonderful night’s rest. Not me. When I wake up, I feel seriously disconnected from reality. Really, truly “off” my game. So, just imagine how I felt then, on surgery day, when I woke up in hernia post-op and saw through my blurred vision a floating silhouette of Elvis in his pork-chop sideburns and pompadour haircut.
I … just … stared. There was no one else around. No one that I could see, no nurses or doctors. I couldn’t hear anyone nearby. My wife had not yet been permitted to come back into recovery. It was just me and the King of Rock and Roll. No one warns you that when the muscle wall below your belt line decides to split it also takes your mind with it.
They don’t let you keep your glasses on during surgery, so my post-anesthetic vision was made all the more disturbing by my poor eyesight. White room, chrome, indistinct details, and maybe 10-12 feet in front of me, a floating Elvis head. No facial features but, folks, the look was absolutely unmistakable.
Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, I heard voices. (Fortunately, these were real.) The medical staff noticed me stirring and dropped by to check on me. They called my wife back, propped me up, and got me a sip of water. That’s when someone noticed I was fixated on something “else” in the room.
“What are you looking at?” someone asked. I don’t know who.
“Could I have my glasses?” I responded. My wife produced my spectacles and I put them on. My vision was still blurry but clear enough to let me see what I needed to see. I pointed across the room. “Is that a bust of Elvis over there?”
Everyone turned and looked. Then I heard laughter. Sure enough, on the counter at the nurse's station directly across from my recovery alcove was a faceless bust of Elvis. White plaster or plastic face, I couldn’t tell which, but the jet black hair and chops were a certain giveaway.
That The King was the first thing I saw coming out of surgery and the last thing I saw when they wheeled me out to the car a few hours later was oddly appropriate and weirdly comforting.
Note: I am not very good at portraits (too out of practice). Also, I was unable to find a photo that resembled what I saw when I woke up in recovery. Therefore, this drawing is more approximation than true-to-life. If you think of it as a “post-op, blurred vision rendition,” then it’s spot on!
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