I Had Surgery During a Pandemic

This was originally written on 5/28/2020. Names and places have been edited.

When you live for over nineteen years with a facial deformity, surgery does not feel “elective”. It feels like something that has to be done. It needs to be done. 

These are the emotions I faced when I was told that my scheduled facial reconstructive surgery was canceled due to the COVID-19 pandemic. My university shut down, my summer plans were canceled, and now I had to wait to have what doctors said would be my twelfth and final  surgery. I was born with a midline deformity that had been surgically corrected over the course of my entire life. I was in the “home-stretch” when the Coronavirus reared its ugly head. I was told that the “elective” surgery I was scheduled to have would be the end of my rendezvous with scalpels and anesthesia. The reality of a pandemic is that no case could be close enough to the finish line to not change the schedule. Pandemics don’t do the waiting. They make you do it instead.

Somehow, after my own COVID-19 scare, a difficult transition to online learning, and complex emotions surrounding the state of the world, everything worked itself out. Months later, after I finished my freshman year of college, I picked up an incoming phone call from Yale and listened as a surgical administrator told me she could “squeeze me in” for surgery only four days later. I had four days to prepare for another facial reconstructive surgery, and I couldn’t have been more grateful. But I also couldn’t have been any more scared. The world wore a mask, sanitized throughout the day, and stayed home. What was I risking, both for myself and others, by walking into one of the busiest hospitals on the East Coast?

On May 21st, 2020, I woke up and got tested for the Coronavirus. A nurse in a full hazmat suit instructed me to roll down my window and lean back. She proceeded to insert what looked like a foot long Q-tip into my nose and down my throat. She swabbed my larynx and instructed me to roll my window up again. I received my negative result just hours later, clearing me for surgery the next day. I pulled out my mask the following morning at 5:45, said a prayer, and got in my car once again. 

When I arrived at the hospital, I called the nurses’ desk and waited for someone to come take my temperature. A small, black haired woman came down and greeted me with kind eyes and a surgical mask covering her face. She pulled out a thermometer and swiped it across my forehead. 

Ninety-nine.

No. I was not about to be turned away after nineteen years of waiting for this point because of the lowest low-grade fever you could possibly have. After putting on a new thermometer tip, the nurse took my temperature again.

Ninety-eight. All clear.

But then she shook me again. My father wasn’t allowed inside the hospital. No, I wasn’t afraid of not having support, I was afraid of walking through hospital halls without a clue as to where I was going. I could handle surgery alone, but navigating the hospital was an obstacle I wasn’t ready for. I gave him a brief hug goodbye and walked to the door with the nurse. I was escorted into the pre-op area and my belongings were tucked safely in a locker. The entire time, a mask hugged my nervous face. I nodded at every new pair of eyes, replacing the smile I would give if masks were not a thing. By this point, I had sanitized my hands three times. The reality of the pandemic precautions was blatantly clear. Nurses came in, checked my vitals, and signed me in. I gave the usual cup of urine, and said “no” to all their COVID-19 screening questions. 

After rounds of these same questions, I was told that there were only two people left I had to speak to: the anesthesiologist and my surgeon. Little did I know, these two people would be the kindest people I’d speak to leading up to the 8:30 call time. The anesthesiologist, greeted me with squinted eyes, indicating a smile, and a salmon-pink mask. He spoke to me as if we were friends, when in fact, we were much more. We were surgery pals. Just like myself, he had undergone intensive surgeries throughout his life. The only time he came less than six feet away, the CDC suggested “safe distance”, was to insert my IV. The small talk that an observer would see in this moment was replaced by talk of the pandemic, the safety measures in place, and how we both wish this surgery wasn’t happening in the middle of such conditions. He patted my hand and left to prep the operating room for my quickly approaching entrance. 

Dr. S came in next, sporting his usual formal attire, accessorized by a blue surgical mask. He sanitized his hands after entering the room and greeted me. He typed away at the computer while I signed the consent form, then initialing it himself. Conversations with him are rare. Being the high ranking surgeon that he is, his focus is more centered on the events of the operating room. But today was different. At nineteen, I was the youngest patient having surgery that day. And for the first time ever, without my father sitting next to me. It appeared as though he felt sympathetic because of that. In lieu of his usual silence and brief summary of the surgery’s details, Dr. S chatted with me about the impact the pandemic had on my schooling. He asked how I was doing with it all. We discussed the closure of my campus, and then shared how we were staying busy during this time. I  had never before shared this many words with the man who was preparing to perform his sixth surgery on me. It is interesting how being socially distanced from people for so long can make even the quietest of individuals talk more.

Before he left, Dr. S had to initial the surgical sights and verify that everything looked good to operate on. This required me to pull my mask down. As I did, he pinched his closer around his nose. These small actions were unique. While it was common to pinch your mask tighter around your nose, it was rarer to pull it down. For the first time since arriving at the hospital, I was breathing full air. The hospital smell was strong, and I much preferred the safe smell from behind my mask. The heavy chemicals and crisp coolness of the air around me was unsettling. My face was quickly marked and my mask brought back up. 

My surgeon left and I was alone for a few moments before I’d  have to leave. With a text to my father, a quick call to a friend, and one heck of a prayer, my anesthesiologist friend guided me to the O.R. He explained to me that because I was a “facial case”, everyone in the operating room would be wearing N-95s, the coveted mask during the pandemic. In some small, obscure way, I felt both honored and ashamed. I felt grateful that they took such precautions, for themselves and for me, but I didn’t want them “wasting” their masks on me. I quickly replaced these thoughts with constant reminders to breathe as my own protective mask was replaced with the anesthesia mask. With a thumbs up from my surgeon and my friend’s hand protectively resting on my shoulder, I went under for surgery number twelve. 

When I woke up, my personal mask was back on my face. My surgeon had operated my right ear, my right nostril, and my scar from previous surgeries. My mask was made so that I had one band of elastic  going around the entirety of my head, not effecting my ear, but it was rubbing against my nose every time I swallowed. A nurse saw the tear run down my cheek and she went  to find a more comfortable mask for me. She came back with the same surgical mask I had seen  all day long, but I couldn’t wrap it around my right ear, which was covered with a glasscock dressing. With the new mask looped around my left ear, and taped to my protective covering, I was breathing and waking up with far less pain. 

What angered me was that I knew the pain from my mask wouldn’t have existed  if it weren’t for the pandemic. Did I regret having surgery?  No. Did I wish I had waited longer? No. But I was still mad. I spent the next two hours in and out of sleep from the anesthesia, and the anesthesiologist came back to check on me. Nurses came over with their masks pinched tight and their gloves on to check my vitals and administer nausea medication. My father was called to come back to the hospital, and I was wheeled down to the car. After six hours of masks, gloves, and distancing from other patients, I was on my way home.

That was the end of my pandemic experience at the hospital. I would not say it was traumatic, although there is always some degree of trauma with any surgery, but I would say it was interesting. Watching the care nurses, doctors, and surgeons took to protect themselves and their patients was admirable. The news has been broadcasting the heroism of these people, and they have not exaggerated. As I prepared to have my face cut open once again, these men and women prepare every day to do their essential jobs. Surgery, including the kind I had, is no joke. But the severity and the seriousness of what these medical professionals face every single day is also no joke. It still shocks me to say that I had facial reconstructive surgery during a worldwide pandemic. But I know that without the men and women who sacrificed to take care of me that day, I wouldn’t be able to.