The original post about this went "poof," but I'm resurrecting it FYI and as a reminder that being knocked out for surgery is never a routine procedure.
I went into the Sloan-Kettering hospital in Manhattan for what was supposed to be my first of three radiation treatments (aka brachytherapy) for an inoperable tumor I have growing in my bronchial cavity. Unfortunately, once they put me under, my blood pressure started to plummet and they had a rough time getting it back up. My surgeon, Dr. Huang, told me afterward that they "were pumping a lot of pretty powerful stuff into you trying to get it to recover." I guess it worked, because I'm still here. I asked one of the anesthesiologists involved whether this was common, and he characterized it as "very rare." They seem relieved that I didn't croak on them, which I guess I can understand. Looks bad on the resume, among other things. I often wonder if I would have walked out of a lesser institution.
So, I'd been "intibated" for surgery and other procedures at least 13 times prior to this one, without any issues whatever. Why did this one go so wrong? I woke up in the ICU with cardiologists crawling all over me, pointing to a video monitor and muttering doctor-talk. They thought I had a heart defect that caused my heart valve to stick open open. Turns out, upon further analysis, that I'm alergic to Lisinopril, a common blood pressure med that I'd been taking for years (and through all 13 intibations), combined with dehydration. The reason it went bad this time is that my BP was running high at one point a couple months prior to this, so I asked my local onc to up my Lisinopril dosage, which he did. Obviously, I should have consulted a cardiologist instead of an oncologist for that. One thing I learned is that medication is nothing to mess around with. "Take as directed" is some of the best advice you'll get, and it's free. I've been put under four times since this incident, with no issues.
Anyway, I'm chilling in the ICU (instead of the morgue) and it happens to be the evening of the 7th game of the World Series. I quit watching TV when I was diagnosed (life's too short for that nonsense, IMO), and I haven't followed baseball for years. But I thought gee, might be a good game and I've got nothing else to do. Well, as we say in the Midwest, "What a game, hey!" Extra innings and the Cubs win the Series for the first time in over 100 years. I went to sleep that night, content, knowing that I almost died and missed this.
This is me the morning after the Cubs finally won the World Series.