The Feeling of General Anesthesia
Feb 2nd, 2010 by Alex
General anesthesia is total unconsciousness.
I’ve had a couple minor and one major surgery done over the past fifteen years, the last of which evoked some questions from family and friends. A handful of procedures doesn’t make me an expert by any means, but I decided to document it best as I can remember. So here goes, what does it feel like being put under?
No sensation. No memories. No visuals. No pain. Nothing. Completely dark. Your autonomous systems are functioning, however.
In simple terms, general anesthesia feels like dreamless sleep.
One notable difference is that you don’t retain any concept of time. If you go to sleep at night, you’ll wake up in the morning and know that time has passed. Many nights, I can tell the difference between a full night’s rest and just a couple hours. Even when you wake up from the disorienting naps that you weren’t planning on, where you don’t have any idea what day it is (even though it’s only been an hour or two), you still know that time has passed. With general anesthesia, not so. Whether you’re out for an hour or for ten, it’s like the time never happened. Similar to how time travel was explained in Back to the Future, as far as you’re concerned the trip is instantaneous.
The brain is a complex device. The freaky part is that the mechanism of pain, sensation, and anesthesia isn’t well understood (meaning, there are a couple theories). That being said, anesthesiologists are like magicians and worth every penny. They start you on an IV drip and you’re out. They remove it and you come back to life. Throughout the procedure they monitor your vitals and keep that anesthetic agent flowing through your veins so that you don’t wake up.
From my perspective, the procedures were straightforward. I was admitted to a private room. After changing into a hospital gown, a nurse found a vein in my hand and started a peripheral IV. It was painful, but not as bad as I would have thought considering the size of the thing. She hung a bag of saline on the IV tree and departed. The IV lines have a few ports available so that additional medication can be injected into the the bloodstream without having to get pricked a second time.
A nurse returned to help roll the whole bed down to the OR, the wheels pivoting in every direction and moving without a sound or a jitter; I was amazed at how smooth the ride was. Someone was there to explain what was going to happen, I guess trying to keep me calm and informed; I think it was the anesthesiologist, since I remember some drug being injected into the line and being told that my extremities would start to feel a little tingly. After some quick “good luck” and “you’re going to do great” assurances from my parents, I remember being rolled away from them and into a very bright and sterile looking room.
Laying down, the first thing I noticed was the light. It’s bright and clear like no other. It screams “medical” without saying a word. The room was much bigger than I thought it would be, with much higher ceilings. As I was transferred to an operating table, I noticed there were a half-dozen people scurrying around the room making preparations. And then they’re all done, looking at you with reassuring eyes. And there you are, ready to go. The anesthesiologist returned, receiving some visual cue from the surgeons. She told me that I’d feel a chill in my arm when she injected the anesthetic, and there it was. Cold. She told me to count down from ten.
Ten.
Nine.
Darkness. Something was wrong. Had to be, that was far too quick. Wasn’t it? I can’t be dead. This can’t be heaven. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I became aware. My head hurt, thus relieving my fear that I had died. I was certain that dead people do not have headaches. I was in the hospital, alone.
I felt really groggy. Not capable of complete thoughts. I spent some time orienting myself and checking things out. My mouth was parched. The air. Something about the air. It was cold. And dry. I couldn’t move all that easily, but I could feel that I was laying in bed, back elevated about 45°. I managed a few self checks: toes, fingers and genitalia, all accounted for. Good. My left hand still had the IV line, so I reached up with my right and discovered an oxygen mask and the cause of the dry air. There were some other tubes coming and going, but I won’t get into those; suffice to say during a six hour procedure there are other autonomous functions that have to be taken care of.
I couldn’t talk. As has always happened when I get put out for a procedure, I get frustrated when I can’t communicate. So I sign. And as always, my mind never puts it together that neither my parents or doctors or nurses can’t understand me then either. Like I said, groggy and not all together.
The road to recovery begins when you wake up. And you’re woken up a lot, as I found out that first night in the ICU. For the first couple hours, I was in and out of a stupor. A nurse would be in to check my vitals every 15-30 minutes, waking me (though not on purpose) from sleep if I had drifted off; I had come through the procedure without complications, but it was still very taxing on my body. The nurse pointed out that if I was in pain, all I had to do was push the button on a little remote; a predetermined amount of extra morphine would be released into my IV. There was pain. And my head was killing me. I was in the hospital, being looked after. And when else would I get to see what morphine felt like? Would it be dazzling? So I pushed it. Instead of the pain vanishing, the headache got worse. Excruciatingly worse. Overwhelming the pain. Whether I’m allergic to opiates or perhaps the preservatives used, I didn’t push the button again. I was still groggy and couldn’t effectively communicate this to the nurses; they thought there was some malfunction with the button. Yes, there was pain from the surgery, but none that compared to that headache. I chose to go with the pain.
In the morning, my doctors came in to see how I was doing. They said everything had gone off without a hitch. The anesthesiologist said that there weren’t any complications. I came to when I was supposed to. The way she said it sounded like a compliment. Thanks?
I was weak for the first day or so, slipping in and out due to the morphine drip and due to exhaustion. That was fine. I learned that there’s a lot that goes on in hospitals, much of which you don’t want to deal with when you’re sick. It’s easier to sleep through most of it if you can. A couple days after the surgery I was released, getting rolled out in a wheelchair to the car. There would be a lot more recovery time involved, but I was happy to be alive and out of the hospital. No offense to any of the fine people who work in them, but for me a hospital is not a happy place.
There are definitely risks involved with general anesthesia, both perceived and actual. The risk that you won’t wake up. The risk of interactions. The notion of awareness is something I don’t even want to think about. But quite frankly, there are risks to all surgery and I’d rather not be aware of the pain and the process. Given the choice between general and twilight anesthesia, I wouldn’t hesitate. Turn out the lights. I’ll see you when I wake up.
Anesthesia is absolutely amazing. I was knocked out for a few hours almost two years ago now for some kidney stone / kidney issues that had to be taken care of. It really is like going to sleep, and then waking up instantly (only with a very very dry mouth). Sounds like it was a pretty intense procedure for you and I’m glad things went as smoothly as they could (sucks about the morphine giving you a headache though - I was once given some pain killers, but never felt anything unless I doubled the dosage).