Yes... let's putyoutosleepnow (photo credit)...
They wheel you into the OR as we finish our checks. Even with the pre-medication, I can see the nervousness in your eyes, your breathing already too quick. I look for signs of earlier struggles. The redness on the wrists from the restraints, the matted hair under the bouffant cap.
Your teary eyes widening as they dart around the OR, taking in the bright lights, the stainless-steel trays, the bustle of the team, and the gleaming stirrups. Your breathing picks up speed.
“I’ll take care of you, darling. You’re safe,” I say.
But your body strains against the straps, barely visible under the blanket.
“I… I didn’t sign up for this,” you whisper.
“That’s okay. You are where you're supposed to be.”
We transfer you over to the OR table. You struggle, limbs uncoordinated, weak, easily overpowered. You slump into the OR table, exhausted. You struggle to sit up as your hands are secured to the outstretched armboards. Your legs writhe as they are lifted and placed on the stirrups, secured with straps.
I soak in the sight before me for a moment. Your bare torso, pale under the surgical lights, with your limbs spread wide on both sides. Your abdomen undulating irregularly as your breathing becomes ragged from your fight.
I cup your face with my gloved hand and stroke your cheek with my thumb to soothe you. I reach out my other hand for the mask on the rack.
When your eyes land on the anesthesia mask, your anxiety spikes. I slide my hand down your face and under your chin, lifting it so you look straight into my eyes.
“There's nothing to worry about. You won’t feel anything. You’ll be asleep before you realize it.”
“Please, what are you going to do to me? I don’t want this,” you say, voice thin with panic.
“Don’t be silly,” I reassure. “You volunteered.”
Your squint your eyes, as you try to recall at which point you consented to this.
As I bring the mask closer, your breathing turns rapid, almost frantic. You are helpless. You start to shake your head, pleading, trying to escape the mask.
“No, please, help, somebody let me go.”
“Shhhh, shush now,” I say softly. “Let’s not make a scene. Don't get the surgeon upset. He will be here shortly.”
You look around for the surgeon, forgetting the mask for a moment. I settle the mask lightly over your face. You flinch, you stare into my eyes as if betrayed. But as you inhale, you smell the chemical entering your lungs. You hold your breath but you couldn't hold your panic down. The first trace of gas begins working on you—subtle, warm, slowly softening the fear.
Your hand twitches under the straps, your legs kick against the restraint, but the premedication weakens the movement.
“No…I am scared…” you murmur beneath the mask as you try to turn your head away from the mask.
“I know. Just breathe. You’re doing perfectly,” I say, adjusting the gas flow as I tighten the seal of the mask over your face as my fingers grip your jawbone under your chin while my other hand holds the top of your head still.
You strain your neck but your head barely moves. Your breath quickens, sucking loudly as the mask hisses.
You freeze. Your eyelids flutter; your muscles loosen; the frantic edge fades into heaviness. The fight is still there, but only barely. Fingers and toes wiggling and slowly fading, the last vestiges of your struggles.
“Good,” I say quietly, reaching for the syringe. “I’m going to give you some propofol now. It’ll help you fall asleep gently.”
You try to focus on me. “Nnnph…pughh…” intelligible as you lose control of your tongue.
“Yes. You’re safe,” I say as I inject the propofol into your IV. “Your arm may feel warm.”
You stop blinking. A frown across your brows as your world starts to spin. You exhale—a long, soft breath—as your eyes lose focus. Then your eyelids droop and your breathing deepens. The last traces of fear slip away.
“There you go,” I murmur. “Let go. I’ve got you. Sleep now.”
Your eyes close halfway. Your face smooths, your breaths fall into a slow rhythm, and the monitors confirm you’re fully asleep.
I check your jaw, glance at the vitals, and nod to the team.
