As I write this, I’m recuperating from hernia surgery. I’ve always been blessed with excellent health, and this was my first surgery ever. Needless to say, I didn’t know what to expect after they wheeled me out of the operating room.
But I admit to an undying gratitude for modern-day medicine. In my case, the surgeon was very skilled, he commonly does hernia surgery, and recovery is faster than it’s ever been. In fact, my paperwork listed the procedure as “Robotic assisted laparoscopic bilateral inguinal hernia repair.”
Quite a mouthful, isn’t it? But one word should jump out at you.
That’s right. My surgeon used a robot to help him fix my hernias.
Oh, my, my, my. What a far cry from surgeries in the 19th century. While researching with the assistance of Doctor Google (hey, who doesn’t run to Google when they need a little self-diagnosing?) I came across an interesting story that I’d love to share with you.
Dr. Ephraim McDowell was a respected frontier surgeon in Kentucky in the early 1800’s when he traveled to a primitive cabin to examine 45-year-old Mrs. Jane Crawford, who, due to her protruding stomach, believed she was pregnant with twins. However, after examination, Dr. McDowell determined Jane wasn’t pregnant at all, but instead carried a massive tumor in her abdomen. He advised her he would attempt to remove the tumor, but she had to ride to his home in Danville where he had surgical tools and medical staff to help.
Mother of four children, Jane was forced to make the decision whether to have the surgery and risk death–or keep the tumor . . . and risk death. After what must’ve been great angst, she left her children with her husband and traveled alone by horseback SIXTY miles through treacherous Kentucky wilderness to the surgeon’s home.
Once she arrived, he bade her rest several days for stamina to endure the ordeal, er, operation. He often performed his surgeries on Sundays so that the prayers offered at his church would be with him. Indeed, he carried a special prayer in his pocket for divine intervention as he performed the surgery.
Now, mind you, they did not have anesthetic in those days. While poor Jane relied on uttering her psalms for strength, Dr. McDowell relied on two medical assistants and a nurse to hold her down while he made a twelve-inch incision in her belly. Immediately, her intestines spilled forth, forcing him to turn her over onto her side to get them out of the way so he could delve deeper–and see what he was doing!–to remove the tumor.
Well, after twenty-five agonizing, perspiring but steady-handed minutes, he succeeded. The tumor was out and weighed TWENTY-TWO POUNDS.
Five days later, she was strong enough to make her bed. By the end of three weeks, she climbed back onto that horse and made the arduous sixty-mile journey through that Kentucky wilderness to return to her family.
What a joyous reunion that must’ve been, eh? She went on to live another 32 years.
Later, Dr. McDowell was named the “Father of Abdominal Surgery” and was known for cleanliness while he worked, a factor that no doubt helped many of his patients to live.
For me, it was just my husband and a nurse in the recovery room after the 90-minute procedure. Afterward, he made a five-minute drive in an air-conditioned car to take me home.
What a difference a couple of centuries makes, eh?
Needless to say, I’m happy to live in this day and age with its medical marvels. I’ll be the first to admit I’m no Jane Crawford. I’m pretty sure I’d be a sniveling wimp if I’d had to go through what she did!
How about you? Have you had a surgery before? Two or three? Are you a wimp when it comes to pain?